Blossoming— and  Stricken  in  Days. 
Common  Heath.  (Ling.) 


PROSERPINA 

ALSO 

ARIADNE  FLORENTINA 
THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE 
ST.  MARK'S  REST 
LECTURES  ON  ART 
THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE 

BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.A. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE,"   44  THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE," 
**  SESAME  AND  LILIES,"  ETC. 


BOSTON 
ALDINE  BOOK  PUBLISHING  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


CONTENTS. 


PROSERPINA. 
Volume  L 

PAGI 

Introduction,         .......  5 

CHAPTER  I. 

Moss,         .         .         .         .         .         .  *  13 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Root,      .         .         .         .         .         •         .  .22 
CHAPTER  III. 

The  Leaf,  .......  31 

CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Flower,  .......         ,  48 

CHAPTER  V. 

Papaver  Rhoeas,  63 
CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Parable  of  Joash,  .         .  76 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  Parable  of  Jotham,  *         »  83 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Stem,      ........  90 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Outside  and  In,  .         •         .         .         ,         .  r     .  107 


The  Hark, 
Genealogy, 
Cora  and  Kronos, 
The  Seed  and  Husk, 
The  Fruit  Gift,  . 


Viola,  . 

Pinguicula, 
Veronica, 

GlULIETTA, 


CHAPTER  X. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Volume  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 


CHAPTER  II. 


CHAPTER  III. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


INDEX  I. 
Descriptive  Nomenclature, 

INDEX  II. 

English  Names,  .... 

INDEX  III. 

Latin  or  Greek  Names,  > 


THE  GETTY  CENTER 
LIBRARY 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 

PAGE 

LECTURE  I. 

Definition  of  the  Art  of  Engraving,   ....  249 
LECTURE  II. 

The  Relation  of  Engraving  to  other  Arts  in  Florence,  268 
LECTURE  III. 

The  Technics  of  Wood  Engraving,       ....  288 
LECTURE  IV. 

Thf  Technics  op  Metal  Engraving,  .         .         .  306 

LECTURE  V. 

Design  in  the  German  Schools  of  Engraving  (Holbein 

and  durer,     .......  324 

LECTURE  VI. 
Design  in  the  Florentine  Schools  of  Engraving  (Sandro 

Botticelli),         ......  350 


APPENDIX. 

ARTICLE  I. 

Notes  on  the  Present  State  of  Engraving  in  England     .  385 
ARTICLE  II. 

Detached  Notes,  .        .         .         e        <.  396 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PROSERPINA, 
Volume  L 

FIGURE  PAG3 

1.  Florae  Dannie                        0  14 

2.  Moss  Plant       ......  „  17 

3.  Leaf  of  the  Alisma         .....  41 

4.  5,  6.   Diagrams  of  Leaves.   Petals  .         .        «  54-56 

7.  Primrose       .......  59 

8,  9.   Development  of  Pease  Blossom  .         .        «  .60 

10.  Welsh  Poppy         ......  66 

11.  Profile  of  Welsh  Poppy      .        .        .        .  •  67 

12.  Poppy           .......  68 

13.  Outline  of  Leaf  of  Burdock         .         •        .  •  93 

14.  Burdock  Leaf  Illustrated  by  Paper  ...  94 

15.  Primulas          .         .         .         .         .         .  .101 

16.  17.   Diagrams  of  Three  Stemmed  Leaves       •         •  108 

18.  Ragged  Robin   .                 .         .         .         .  ,109 

19.  Monocot  Plant      ......  109 


FIG.  PAGE 

20.  Arethusan  Leaf         .                  .         .         .  .no 

21.  Arethusan  Leaf  cut  from  Paper        .         .  in 

22.  Species  of  Grass  112 

23.  Fleur-de -lys  Leaf  .         .         .         .         0  .114 

Volume  II. 

1.  Violet  Leaf      .         .         .         .         .         ,  .174 

2.  Violet          .......  180 

Virgula  .         .         .         .         .         .         ,  .  199 

4.    Veronica  Regina    .         .         .         .         .         .  211 

j.    Flora  Danica    .         .         .         .         .         .  .  215 

ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 

1.  Shape  of  Soltd  Ploughshare  ....  289 
4    Cross  Hatching          •        •••*•  299 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


riOSERPINA. 

PLaTES  FACiNG  PAGE 

I.  Blossoming — and  Stricken  in  Days.  {Frontispiece) 

II.  Central  Type  of  Leaves.    Common  Bay  Laurel  .  34 

III.  Acanthoid  Leaves.    Northern  Attic  Type     .  .  82 

IV.  Crested  Leaves.    Lettuce  Thistles  .         .  83 

V.  Occult  Spiral  Action.    Waste  Thistle         .  .  97 

VI.    Radical  InsertioxN  of  Leaves  of  Ensat^  Iris  Ger- 
man ica  .  .  .  .  .  .  122 

VII.  Contorto  Purpurea.    Purple  Wreath- Wort  .  125 

VIII.  Myrtilla  Regina          .         ,         .         .  .150 

IX.  Viola  Canina          .....  c  165 

X.  Viola  Canina.    Structural  Details         .  •  180 

XI.  States  of  Adversity         ,         ,         .  •  230 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 

FLATKS  PAGE 

L  Things  Celestial  and  Terrestrial           •         •  302 

II.  The  Star  of  Florence      .....  306 

III.  At  Evening,  from  the  Top  of  Fesole         .         .  317 

IV.  By  the  Springs  of  Parnassus      ....  321 
V.  Heat  Considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion     .         .  335 

VI.  Fairness  of  the  Sea  and  Air      ....  338 

VII.  For  a  Time  and  Times           ....  372 

VIII.  The  Nymph  Beloved  of  Apollo.    Michael  Angelo  .  373 

IX.  In  the  Woods  of  Ida    .....  373 

X.  Grass  of  the  Desert         .....  376 

XI.  Obediente  Domino  voci  hominis      .         .         .  385 

XII.  The  Coronation  in  the  Garden          .        .        #  396 


PROSERPINA 

STUDIES  OF  WAYSIDE  FLOWERS 


INTRODUCTION. 


Brantwood,  14th  March,  1874- 
Yesterday  evening  I  was  looking  over  the  first  book  in  which 
I  studied  Botany, — Curtis's  Magazine,  published  in  1795  at 
No.  3,  St.  George's  Crescent,  Blackfriars  Road,  and  sold  by 
the  principal  booksellers  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  Its 
plates  are  excellent,  so  that  I  am  always  glad  to  find  in  it  the 
picture  of  a  flowTer  I  know.  And  I  came  yesterday  upon  what 
I  suppose  to  be  a  variety  of  a  favourite  flower  of  mine,  called, 
in  Curtis,  "  the  St.  Bruno's  Lily." 

I  am  obliged  to  say  "  what  I  suppose  to  be  a  variety,"  be- 
cause my  pet  lily  is  branched,*  while  this  is  drawn  as  un- 
branched,  and  especially  stated  to  be  so.  And  the  page  of 
text,  in  which  this  statement  is  made,  is  so  characteristic  of 
botanical  books,  and  botanical  science,  not  to  say  all  science 
as  hitherto  taught  for  the  blessing  of  mankind  ;  and  of  the  diffi- 
culties thereby  accompanying  its  communication,  that  I  extract 
the  page  entire,  printing  it,  on  page  7,  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
facsimile. 

Now  you  observe,  in  this  instructive  page,  that  you  have  in 
the  first  place,  nine  names  given  you  for  one  flower ;  and  that 
among  these  nine  names,  you  are  not  even  at  liberty  to  make 
your  choice,  because  the  united  authority  of  Haller  and  Miller 
may  be  considered  as  an  accurate  balance  to  the  single  author- 
ity of  Linnaeus ;  and  you  ought  therefore  for  the  present  to 
remain,  yourself,  balanced  between  the  sides.  You  may  be 
farther  embarrassed  by  finding  that  the  Anthericum  of  Savoy 

*  At  least,  it  throws  off  its  flowers  on  each  side  in  a  bewilderingly 
pretty  way  ;  a  real  lily  can't  branch,  I  believe  :  bnt,  if  not,  what  is  the 
use  of  the  botanical  books  saying  "  on  an  unbranched  stem"  ? 


6 


INTRODUCTION, 


is  only  described  as  growing  in  Switzerland.  And  farther 
still,  by  finding  that  Mr.  Miller  describes  two  varieties  of  it, 
which  differ  only  in  size,  while  you  are  left  to  conjecture 
wThether  the  one  here  figured  is  the  larger  or  smaller  ;  and 
how  great  the  difference  is. 

Farther,  If  you  wish  to  know  anything  of  the  habits  of  the 
plant,  as  well  as  its  nine  names,  you  are  informed  that  it  grows 
both  at  the  bottoms  of  the  mountains,  and  the  tops  ;  and  that, 
with  us.  it  flowers  in  May  and  June, — but  you  are  not  told 
when,  in  its  native  country. 

The  four  lines  of  the  last  clause  but  one,  may  indeed  be 
useful  to  gardeners  ;  but — although  I  know  my  good  father 
and  mother  did  the  best  they  could  for  me  in  buying  this 
beautiful  book  ;  and  though  the  admirable  plates  of  it  did 
their  work,  and  taught  me  much,  I  cannot  wonder  that  neither 
my  infantine  nor  boyish  mind  was  irresistibly  attracted  by  the 
text  of  which  this  page  is  one  of  the  most  favourable  speci- 
mens ;  nor,  in  consequence,  that  my  botanical  studies  were — 
when  I  had  attained  the  age  of  fifty — no  farther  advanced  than 
the  reader  will  find  them  in  the  opening  chapter  of  this  book. 

Which  said  book  was  therefore  undertaken,  to  put,  if  it 
might  be,  some  elements  of  the  science  of  botany  into  a  form 
more  tenable  by  ordinary  human  and  childish  faculties  ;  or — 
for  I  can  scarcely  say  I  have  yet  any  tenure  of  it  myself — to 
make  the  paths  of  approach  to  it  more  pleasant.  In  fact,  I 
only  know,  of  it,  the  pleasant  distant  effects  which  it  bears  to 
simple  eyes ;  and  some  pretty  mists  and  mysteries,  which  I 
invite  my  young  readers  to  pierce,  as  they  may,  for  themselves, 
— my  power  of  guiding  them  being  only  for  a  little  way. 

Pretty  mysteries,  I  say,  as  opposed  to  the  vulgar  and  ugly 
mysteries  of  the  so-called  science  of  botany, — exemplified  suf- 
ficiently in  this  chosen  page.  Respecting  which,  please  ob- 
serve farther  ; — Nobody — I  can  say  this  very  boldly — loves 
Latin  more  dearly  than  I ;  but,  precisely  because  I  do  love 
it  (as  well  as  for  other  reasons),  I  have  always  insisted  that 
books,  whether  scientific  or  not,  ought  to  be  written  either  in 
Latin,  or  English  ;  and  not  in  a  doggish  mixture  of  the  refuse 
of  both. 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


Antiiericum  Liliastrum.    Savoy  Antiiericum,  or 
St  Bruno's  Lily. 

Class  and  Order. 
Hexandria  Monogynia. 
Generic  Character. 
Cor.  6-petala,  patens.    Caps,  ovata. 

Specific  Character  and  Synonyms. 
ANTHERICUM  Liliastrum  f oliis  planis,  scapo  simplicissimo, 
corollis  campanulatis,  staminibus  declinatis. 
Linn.  Syst.  Vegetab.  ed.  14.  Murr.  p.  330. 
Ait.  Kew.  v.  I.  p.  449. 
HEMEROCALLIS  floribus  patulis  secundis.  Hall.  Hist, 
n.  1230. 

PHALANGIUM  magno  fiore.    Bauh.  Pin.  29. 
PHALANGIUM  Allobrogicum  majus.    Clus.  cur.  app.  alt. 
PHALANGIUM  Allobrogicum.  The  Savoye  Spider-wort.  Park. 
Parad.  p.  150.  tab.  151./.  1. 


Botanists  are  divided  in  their  opinions  respecting  the  genus  of  this 
plant ;  Linnaeus  considers  it  as  an  Anthericum,  Haller  and  Miller 
make  it  an  Hemerocallis. 

It  is  a  native  of  Switzerland,  where,  Haller  informs  us,  it  grows 
abundantly  in  the  Alpine  meadows,  and  even  on  the  summits  of  the 
mountains  ;  with  us  it  flowers  in  May  and  June. 

It  is  a  plant  of  great  elegance,  producing  on  an  unbranched  stem  about 
a  foot  and  a  half  high,  numerous  flowers  of  a  delicate  white  colour,  much 
smaller  but  resembling  in  form  those  of  the  common  white  lily,  pos- 
sessing a  considerable  degree  of  fragrance,  their  beauty  is  heightened 
by  the  rich  orange  colour  of  their  antherse ;  unfortunately  they  are  but 
of  short  duration. 

Miller  describes  two  varieties  of  it  differing  merely  in  size. 

A  loamy  soil,  a  situation  moderately  moist,  with  an  eastern  or  western 
exposure,  suits  this  plant  best  ;  so  situated,  it  will  increase  by  its  roots, 
though  not  very  fast,  and  by  parting  of  these  in  the  autumn,  it  is  usu- 
ally propagated. 

Parkinson  describes  and  figures  it  in  his  Parad.  Terrest.,  observing 
that  ''divers  allured  by  the  beauty  of  its  flowers,  had  brought  it  into 
these  parts." 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


Linnaeus  wrote  a  noble  book  of  universal  Natural  History 
in  Latin.  It  is  one  of  the  permanent  classical  treasures  of  the 
world.  And  if  any  scientific  man  thinks  his  labours  are  worth 
the  world's  attention,  let  him,  also,  write  what  he  has  to  say 
in  Latin,  finishedly  and  exquisitely,  if  it  take  him  a  month  to 
a  page.* 

But  if — which,  unless  he  be  one  chosen  of  millions,  is  assur- 
edly the  fact — his  lucubrations  are  only  of  local  and  tempo- 
rary consequence,  let  him  write,  as  clearly  as  he  can,  in  his 
native  language. 

This  book,  accordingly,  I  have  written  in  English  ;  (not,  by 
the  way,  that  I  could  have  written  it  in  anything  else — so  there 
are  small  thanks  to  me) ;  and  one  of  its  purposes  is  to  inter- 
pret, for  young  English  readers,  the  necessary  European  Latin 
or  Greek  names  of  flowers,  and  to  make  them  vivid  and  vital 
to  their  understandings.  But  two  great  difficulties  occur  in 
doing  this.  The  first,  that  there  are  generally  from  three  or 
four,  up  to  two  dozen,  Latin  names  current  for  every  flower  ; 
and  every  new  botanist  thinks  his  eminence  only  to  be  prop- 
erly asserted  by  adding  another. 

The  second,  and  a  much  more  serious  one,  is  of  the  Devils 
own  contriving — (and  remember  I  am  always  quite  serious 
when  I  speak  of  the  Devil,) — namely,  that  the  most  current 
and  authoritative  names  are  apt  to  be  founded  on  some  un- 
clean or  debasing  association,  so  that  to  interpret  them  is  to 
defile  the  reader's  mind.  I  will  give  no  instance  ;  too  many 
will,  at  once  occur  to  any  learned  reader,  and  the  unlearned  I 
need  not  vex  with  so  much  as  one  :  but,  in  such  cases,  since 
I  could  only  take  refuge  in  the  untranslated  word  by  leaving 
other  Greek  or  Latin  words  also  untranslated,  and  the  nomen- 
clature still  entirely  senseless, — and  I  do  not  choose  to  do 
this, — there  is  only  one  other  course  open  to  me,  namely,  to 
substitute  boldly,  to  my  own  pupils,  other  generic  names  for 
the  plants  thus  faultfully  hitherto  titled. 

As  I  do  not  do  this  for  my  own  pride,  but  honestly  for  my 

*  I  have  by  happy  chance  just  added  to  my  Oxford  library  the  poet 
Gray's  copy  of  Linnaeus,  with  its  exquisitely  written  Latin  notes,  exem- 
plary alike  to  scholar  and  naturalist. 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


reader's  service,  I  neither  question  nor  care  how  far  the  emen- 
dations I  propose  may  be  now  or  hereafter  adopted.  I  shall 
not  even  name  the  cases  in  which  they  have  been  made  for  the 
serious  reason  above  specified  ;  but  even  shall  mask  those 
which  there  was  real  occasion  to  alter,  by  sometimes  giving 
new  names  in  cases  where  there  was  no  necessity  of  such  kind. 
Doubtless  I  shall  be  accused  of  doing  myself  what  I  violently 
blame  in  others.  I  do  so  ;  but  with  a  different  motive — of 
which  let  the  reader  judge  as  he  is  disposed.  The  practical 
result  will  be  that  the  children  who  learn  botany  on  the  sys- 
tem adopted  in  this  book  will  know  the  useful  and  beautiful 
names  of  plants  hitherto  given,  in  all  languages  ;  the  useless 
and  ugly  ones  they  will  not  know.  And  they  will  have  to 
learn  one  Latin  name  for  each  plant,  which,. when  differing 
from  the  common  one,  I  trust  may  yet  by  some  scientific  per- 
sons be  accepted,  and  with  ultimate  advantage. 

The  learning  of  the  one  Latin  name — as,  for  instance,  Gra- 
men  striatum — I  hope  will  be  accurately  enforced  always  ; — 
but  not  less  carefully  the  learning  of  the  pretty  English  one 
— "Ladielace  Grass" — with  due  observance  that  " Ladies' 
laces  hath  leaves  like  unto  Millet  in  fashion  with  many  white 
vaines  or  ribs,  and  silver  strakes  running  along  through  the 
middest  of  the  leaves,  fashioning  the  same  like  to  laces  of 
white  and  green  silk,  very  beautiful  and  faire  to  behold." 

I  have  said  elsewhere,  and  can  scarcely  repeat  too  often, 
that  a  day  will  come  when  men  of  science  will  think  their 
names  disgraced,  instead  of  honoured,  by  being  used  to  bar- 
barise  nomenclature  ;  I  hope  therefore  that  my  own  name 
may  be  kept  well  out  of  the  way  ;  but,  having  been  privileged 
to  found  the  School  of  Art  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  I  think 
that  I  am  justified  in  requesting  any  scientific  writers  who 
may  look  kindly  upon  this  book,  to  add  such  of  the  names 
suggested  in  it  as  they  think  deserving  of  acceptance,  to  their 
own  lists  of  synonyms,  under  the  head  of  "Schol.  Art. 
Oxon." 

The  difficulties  thrown  in  the  way  of  any  quiet  private 
student  by  existing  nomenclature  may  be  best  illustrated  by 
my  simply  stating  what  happens  to  myself  in  endeavouring 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


to  use  the  page  above  facsimile'cl.  Not  knowing  how  far  St. 
Bruno's  Lily  might  be  connected  with  my  own  pet  one,  and 
not  having  any  sufficient  book  on  Swiss  botany,  I  take  down 
Loudon's  Encyclopaedia  of  Plants,  (a  most  useful  book,  as  far 
as  any  book  in  the  present  state  of  the  science  can  be  useful,) 
and  find,  under  the  head  of  Anthericum,  the  Savoy  Lily  in- 
deed, but  only  the  following  general  information  :— "  809. 
Anthericum.  A  name  applied  by  the  Greeks  to  the  stem  of 
the  asphodel,  and  not  misapplied  to  this  set  of  plants,  which 
in  some  sort  resemble  the  asphodel.  Plants  with  fleshy 
leaves,  and  spikes  of  bright  yellow  flowers,  easily  cultivated  if 
kept  dry." 

Hunting  further,  I  find  again  my  Savoy  lily  called  a  spider- 
plant,  under  the  article  Hemerocallis,  and  the  only  informa- 
tion which  the  book  gives  me  under  Hemerocallis,  is  that  it 
means  c beautiful  day'  lily;  and  then,  "This  is  an  ornamental 
genus  of  the  easiest  culture.  The  species  are  remarkable 
among  border  flowers  for  their  fine  orange,  yellow,  or  blue 
flowers.  The  Hemerocallis  coerulea  has  been  considered  a 
distinct  genus  by  Mr.  Salisbury,  and  called  Saussurea."  As 
I  correct  this  sheet  for  press,  however,  I  find  that  the  Heme- 
rocallis is  now  to  be  called  '  Funkia,'  "  in  honour  of  Mr.  Funk, 
a  Prussian  apothecary." 

All  this  while,  meantime,  I  have  a  suspicion  that  my  pet 
Savoy  Lily  is  not,  in  existing  classification,  an  Anthericum, 
nor  a  Hemerocallis,  but  a  Lilium.  It  is,  in  fact,  simply  a 
Turk's  cap  which  doesn't  curl  up.  But  on  trying  '  Lilium  ' 
in  Loudon,  I  find  no  mention  whatever  of  any  wild  branched 
white  lily. 

I  then  try  the  next  word  in  my  specimen  page  of  Curtis  ; 
but  there  is  no  '  Phalangium  '  at  all  in  Loudon's  index.  And 
now  I  have  neither  time  nor  mind  for  more  search,  but  will 
give,  in  due  place,  such  account  as  I  can  of  my  own  dwarf 
branched  lily,  which  I  shall  call  St.  Bruno's,  as  well  as  this 
Liliastrum — no  offence  to  the  saint,  I  hope.  For  it  grows 
very  gloriously  on  the  limestones  of  Savoy,  presumably,  there- 
fore, at  the  Grande  Chartreuse  ;  though  I  did  not  notice  it 
there,  and  made  a  very  unmonkish  use  of  it  when  I  gathered 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


it  last  : — There  was  a  pretty  young  English  lady  at  the  table- 
<Th6 te,  in  the  Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc  at  St.  Martin's,*  and  I 
wanted  to  get  speech  of  her,  and  didn't  know  how.  So  all  I 
could  think  of  was  to  go  half-way  up  the  Aiguille  de  Varens, 
to  gather  St.  Bruno's  lilies  ;  and  I  made  a  great  cluster  of 
them,  and  put  wild  roses  all  around  them  as  I  came  down* 
I  never  saw  anything  so  lovely  ;  and  I  thought  to  present 
this  to  her  before  dinner, — but  when  I  got  down,  she  had 
gone  away  to  Chamouni.  My  Fors  always  treated  me  like 
that,  in  affairs  of  the  heart. 

I  had  begun  my  studies  of  Alpine  botany  just  eighteen 
years  before,  in  1842,  by  making  a  careful  drawing  of  wood- 
sorrel  at  Chamouni ;  and  bitterly  sorry  I  am,  now,  that  the  work 
was  interrupted.  For  I  drew,  then,  very  delicately;  and  should 
have  made  a  pretty  book  if  I  could  have  got  peace.  Even 
yet,  I  can  manage  my  point  a  little,  and  would  far  rather  be 
making  outlines  of  flowers,  than  writing  ;  and  I  meant  to  have 
drawn  every  English  and  Scottish  wild  flower,  like  this  clus- 
ter of  bog  heather  opposite, f — back,  and  profile,  and  front. 
But  'Blackwood's  Magazine,'  with  its  insults  to  Turner, 
dragged  me  into  controversy  ;  and  I  have  not  had,  properly 
speaking,  a  days  peace  since  ;  so  that  in  1868  my  botanical 
studies  were  advanced  only  as  far  as  the  reader  will  see  in 
next  chapter  ;  and  now,  in  1874,  must  end  altogether,  I  sup- 
pose, heavier  thoughts  and  work  coming  fast  on  me.  So  that, 
finding  among  my  notebooks,  two  or  three,  full  of  broken  ma- 
terials for  the  proposed  work  on  flowers  ;  and,  thinking  they 
may  be  useful  even  as  fragments,  I  am  going  to  publish  them 
in  their  present  state, — only  let  the  reader  note  that  while  my 
other  books  endeavour,  and  claim,  so  far  as  they  reach,  to 
give  trustworthy  knowledge  of  their  subjects,  this  one  only 
shows  how  such  knowledge  may  be  obtained  ;  and  it  is  little 

*  It  was  in  the  year  1860,  in  June. 

f  Admirably  engraved  by  Mr.  Burgess,  from  my  pen  drawing,  now  at 
Oxford.  By  comparing  it  witli  the  plate  of  the  same  flower  in  Sower* 
by's  work,  the  student  will  at  once  see  the  difference  between  attentive 
drawing,  which  gives  the  cadence  and  relation  of  masses  in  a  group, 
and  the  mere  copying  of  each  flower  in  an  unconsidered  huddle. 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


more  than  a  history  of  efforts  and  plans, — but  of  both,  I  be- 
lieve, made  in  right  methods. 

One  part  of  the  book,  however,  will,  I  think,  be  found  of 
permanent  value.  Mr.  Burgess  has  engraved  on  wood,  in  re- 
duced size,  with  consummate  skill,  some  of  the  excellent  old 
drawings  in  the  Flora  Danica,  and  has  interpreted,  and  fac- 
similed, some  of  his  own  and  my  drawings  from  nature,  with 
a  vigour  and  precision  unsurpassed  in  woodcut  illustration, 
which  render  these  outlines  the  best  exercises  in  black  and 
white  I  have  yet  been  able  to  prepare  for  my  drawing  pupils. 
The  larger  engravings  by  Mr.  Allen  may  also  be  used  with  ad- 
vantage as  copies  for  drawings  with  pen  or  sepia. 

Rome,  10th  May  {my  father's  birthday). 
I  found  the  loveliest  blue  asphodel  I  ever  saw  in  my  life, 
yesterday,  in  the  fields  beyond  Monte  Mario, — a  spire  two 
feet  high,  of  more  than  two  hundred  stars,  the  stalks  of  them 
all  deep  blue,  as  well  as  the  flowers.  Heaven  send  all  honest 
people  the  gathering  of  the  like,  in  Elysian  fields,  some  day ! 


PROSERPINA 


CHAPTER  I. 

MOSS. 

Denmark  Hill,  3rd  November,  1868. 

1.  It  is  mortifying  enough  to  write, — but  I  think  thus 
much  ought  to  be  written, — concerning  myself,  as  '  the  author 
of  Modern  Painters/  In  three  months  I  shall  be  fifty  years 
old  :  and  I  don't  at  this  hour — ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of 
the  two  hundred  and  sixty-eighth  day  of  my  forty-ninth  year 
— know  what  'moss'  is. 

There  is  nothing  I  have  more  intended  to  know — some  day 
or  other.  But  the  moss  '  would  always  be  there ' ;  and  then 
it  was  so  beautiful,  and  so  difficult  to  examine,  that  one  could 
only  do  it  in  some  quite  separated  time  of  happy  leisure — 
which  came  not.  I  never  was  like  to  have  less  leisure  than 
now,  but  I  will  know  what  moss  is,  if  possible,  forthwith. 

2.  To  that  end  I  read  preparatorily,  yesterday,  what  ac- 
count I  could  find  of  it  in  all  the  botanical  books  in  the  house. 
Out  of  them  all,  I  get  this  general  notion  of  a  moss, — that  it 
has  a  fine  fibrous  root, — a  stem  surrounded  with  spirally  set 
leaves, — and  produces  its  fruit  in  a  small  case,  under  a  cap. 
I  fasten  especially,  however,  on  a  sentence  of  Louis  Figuier's, 
about  the  particular  species,  Hypnum  : — 

"These  mosses,  which  often  form  little  islets  of  verdure  at 
the  feet  of  poplars  and  willows,  are  robust  vegetable  organ- 
isms, which  do  not  decay."  * 

3.  "Qui  ne  pourrissent  point."  What  do  they  do  with 
themselves,  then  ? — it  immediately  occurs  to  me  to  ask.  And, 
secondly, — If  this  immortality  belongs  to  the  Hypnum  only  ? 

*  "Histoire  des  Plantes."  Ed.  1865,  p.  416. 


PROSERPINA. 


It  certainly  does  not,  by  any  means  :  but,  however  modified 
or  limited,  this  immortality  is  the  first  thing  we  ought  to  take 
note  of  in  the  mosses.  They  are,  in  some  degree,  what  the 
" everlasting"  is  in  flowers.  Those  minute  green  leaves  of 
theirs  do  not  decay,  nor  fall. 

But  how  do  they  die,  or  how  stop  growing,  then  ? — it  is  the 
first  thing  I  want  to  know  about  them.  And  from  all  the 
books  in  the  house,  I  can't  as  yet  find  out  this.  Meanwhile  I 
will  look  at  the  leaves  themselves. 

4.  Going  out  to  the  garden,  I  bring  in  a  bit  of  old  brick, 
emerald  green  on  its  rugged  surface,*  and  a  thick  piece  of 
mossy  turf. 

First,  for  the  old  brick  :  To  think  of  the  quantity  of  pleas- 
ure one  has  had  in  one's  life  from  that  emerald  green  velvet, 
— and  yet  that  for  the  first  time  to-day  I  am  verily  going  to 
look  at  it !  Doing  so,  through  a  pocket  lens  of  no  great 
power,  I  find  the  velvet  to  be  composed  of  small  star-like 
groups  of  smooth,  strong,  oval  leaves, — in- 
tensely green,  and  much  like  the  young 
leaves  of  any  other  plant,  except  in  this  ; — 
they  all  have  a  long  brown  spike,  like  a 
sting,  at  their  ends. 

5.  Fastening  on  that,  I  take  the  Flora 
Danica,f  and  look  through  its  plates  of 
mosses,  for  their  leaves  only  ;  and  I  find, 
first,  that  this  spike,  or  strong  central  rib, 
is  characteristic  ; —  secondly,  that  the  said 
leaves  are  apt  to  be  not  only  spiked,  but 
serrated,  and  otherwise  angry-looking  at  the  points  ; — thirdly, 
that  they  have  a  tendency  to  fold  together  in  the  centre  (Fig. 
1  \) ;  and  at  last,  after  an  hour's  work  at  them,  it  strikes  me 

*  The  like  of  it  I  have  now  painted,  Number  281,  Case  xii.,  in  the 
Educational  Series  of  Oxford. 

f  Properly,  Florae  Danicse,  but  it  is  so  tiresome  to  print  the  diph- 
thongs that  I  shall  always  call  it  thus.  It  is  a  folio  series,  exquisitely 
begun,  a  hundred  years  ago  ;  and  not  yet  finished. 

%  Magotf?«4?  ahoui  &*vexi  to**.    See  note  at  end  of  this  chapter. 


MOSS. 


15 


suddenly  that  they  are  more  like  pineapple  leaves  than  any- 
thing else. 

And  it  occurs  to  me,  very  unpleasantly,  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  don't  know  what  a  pineapple  is ! 

Stopping  to  ascertain  that,  I  am  told  that  a  pineapple 
belongs  to  the  '  Bromeliaceje ' — (can't  stop  to  find  out  what 
that  means) — nay,  that  of  these  plants  "the  pineapple  is  the 
representative"  (Loudon);  "their  habit  is  acid,  their  leaves 
rigid,  and  toothed  with  spines,  their  bracteas  often  coloured 
with  scarlet,  and  their  flowers  either  white  or  blue  " — (what 
are  their  flowers  like?)  But  the  two  sentences  that  most 
interest  me,  are,  that  in  the  damp  forests  of  Carolina,  the  Til- 
landsia,  which  is  an  '  epiphyte  ■  (i.e.,  a  plant  growing  on  other 
plants,)  "forms  dense  festoons  among  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  vegetating  among  the  black  mould  that  collects  upon 
the  bark  of  trees  in  hot  damp  countries ;  other  species  are  in- 
habitants of  deep  and  gloomy  forests,  and  others  form,  with 
their  spring  leaves,  an  impenetrable  herbage  in  the  Pampas 
of  Brazil."  So  they  really  seem  to  be  a  kind  of  moss,  on  a 
vast  scale. 

6.  Next,  I  find  in  Gray,*  Bromeliacese,  and — the  very  thing 
I  want — "  Tillandsia,  the  black  moss,  or  long  moss,  which, 
like  most  Bromelias,  grows  on  the  branches  of  trees."  So  the 
pineapple  is  really  a  moss  ;  only  it  is  a  moss  that  flowers  but 
'imperfectly.'  "The  fine  fruit  is  caused  by  the  consolidation 
of  the  imperfect  flowers."  (I  wish  we  could  consolidate  some 
imperfect  English  moss-flowers  into  little  pineapples  then, — 
though  they  were  only  as  big  as  filberts.)  But  we  cannot 
follow  that  farther  now ;  nor  consider  when  a  flower  is  per- 
fect, and  when  it  is  not,  or  we  should  get  into  morals,  and  I 
don't  know  where  else  ;  we  will  go  back  to  the  moss  I  have 
gathered,  for  I  begin  to  see  my  way,  a  little,  to  understanding 
it. 

7.  The  second  piece  I  have  on  the  table  is  a  cluster — an 
inch  or  two  deep — of  the  moss  that  grows  everywhere,  and 
that  the  birds  use  for  nest-building,  and  we  for  packing,  and 

*  American, — '  System  of  Botany,'  the  best  technical  book  I  have. 


16 


PROSERPINA. 


the  like.  It  is  dry,  since  yesterday,  and  its  fibres  define  them-' 
selves  against  the  dark  ground  in  warm  green,  touched  with 
a  glittering  light.  Note  that  burnished  lustre  of  the  minute 
leaves  ;  they  are  necessarily  always  relieved  against  dark  hol- 
lows, and  this  lustre  makes  them  much  clearer  and  brighter 
than  if  they  were  of  dead  green.  In  that  lustre — and  it  is 
characteristic  of  them — they  differ  wholly  from  the  dead,  aloe- 
like texture  of  the  pineapple  leaf ;  and  remind  me,  as  I  look  at 
them  closely,  a  little  of  some  conditions  of  chaff,  as  on  heads 
of  wheat  after  being  threshed.  I  will  hunt  down  that  clue 
presently  ;  meantime  there  is  something  else  to  be  noticed  on 
the  old  brick. 

8.  Out  of  its  emerald  green  cushions  of  minute  leaves,  there 
rise,  here  and  there,  thin  red  threads,  each  with  a  little  brown 
cap,  or  something  like  a  cap,  at  the  top  of  it.  These  red 
threads  shooting  up  out  of  the  green  tufts,  are,  I  believe,  the 
fructification  of  the  moss  ;  fringing  its  surface  in  the  woods, 
and  on  the  rocks,  with  the  small  forests  of  brown  stems,  each 
carrying  its  pointed  cap  or  crest — of  infinitely  varied  '  mode/ 
as  we  shall  see  presently ;  and,  which  is  one  of  their  most 
blessed  functions,  carrying  high  the  dew  in  the  morning ; 
every  spear  balancing  its  own  crystal  globe. 

9.  And  now,  with  my  own  broken  memories  of  moss,  and 
this  unbroken,  though  unfinished,  gift  of  the  noble  labour  of 
other  people,  the  Flora  Danica,  I  can  generalize  the  idea  of 
the  precious  little  plant,  for  myself,  and  for  the  reader. 

All  mosses,  I  believe,  (with  such  exceptions  and  collateral 
groups  as  we  may  afterwards  discover,  but  they  are  not  many,) 
that  is  to  say,  some  thousands  of  species,  are,  in  their  strength 
of  existence,  composed  of  fibres  surrounded  by  clusters  of  dry 
spinous  leaves,  set  close  to  the  fibre  they  grow  on.  Out  of 
this  leafy  stem  descends  a  fibrous  root,  and  ascends  in  its  sea- 
son, a  capped  seed. 

We  must  get  this  very  clearly  into  our  heads.  Fig.  2,  a,  is 
a  little  tuft  of  a  common  wood  moss  of  Norway,*  in  its  fruit 
season,  of  its  real  size  ;  but  at  present  I  want  to  look  at  the 

*  'Dicranum  cerviculatum,'  sequel  to  Flora  Danica,  Tab.  MMCCX, 


MOSS. 


17 


central  fibre  and  its  leaves  accurately,  and  understand  that 
first. 

10.  Pulling  it  to  pieces,  we  find  it  composed  of  seven  little 
company-keeping  fibres,  each  of  which,  by  itself, 
appears  as  in  Fig.  2,  b  :  but  as  in  this,  its  real 
size,  it  is  too  small,  not  indeed  for  our  respect, 
but  for  our  comprehension,  we  magnify  it,  Fig. 
2,  c,  and  thereupon  perceive  it  to  be  indeed  com- 
posed of,  a,  the  small  fibrous  root  which  sustains 
the  plant ;  b,  the  leaf-surrounded  stem  which  is 
the  actual  being,  and  main  creature,  moss  ;  and, 
c,  the  aspirant  pillar,  and  cap,  of  its  fructification. 

11.  But  there  is  one  minor  division  yet.  You 
see  I  have  drawn  the  central  part  of  the  moss 
plant  (6,  Fig.  2,)  half  in  outline  and  half  in  black  ; 
and  that,  similarly,  in  the  upper  group,  which  is 
too  small  to  show  the  real  roots,  the  base  of  the 
cluster  is  black.  And  you  remember,  I  doubt 
not,  how  often  in  gathering  what  most  invited 
gathering,  of  deep  green,  starry,  perfectly  soft 
and  living  wood-moss,  you  found  it  fall  asunder 
in  your  hand  into  multitudes  of  separate  threads, 
each  with  its  bright  green  crest,  and  long  root 
of  blackness. 

That  blackness  at  the  root — though  only  so 
notable  in  this  wood-moss  and  collateral  species, 
is  indeed  a  general  character  of  the  mosses,  with 
rare  exceptions.  It  is  their  funeral  blackness  ; 
— that,  I  perceive,  is  the  way  the  moss  leaves 
die.  They  do  not  fall — they  do  not  visibly  decay. 
But  they  decay  invisibly,  in  continual  secession, 
beneath  the  ascending  crest.  They  rise  to  form 
that  crest,  all  green  and  bright,  and  take  the 
light  and  air  from  those  out  of  which  they  grew  ;  and  those, 
their  ancestors,  darken  and  die  slowly,  and  at  last  become 
a  mass  of  mouldering  ground.  In  fact,  as  I  perceive  farther, 
their  final  duty  is  so  to  die.  The  main  work  of  other  leaves 
is  in  their  life, — but  these  have  to  form  the  earth  out  of  which 


Fig.  2. 


IS 


PROSERPINA. 


all  other  leaves  are  to  grow.  Not  to  cover  the  rocks  with 
golden  velvet  only,  but  to  fill  their  crannies  with  the  dark  earth, 
through  which  nobler  creatures  shall  one  day  seek  their  being. 

12.  "Grant  but  as  many  sorts  of  mind  as  moss."  Pope 
could  not  have  known  the  hundredth  part  of  the  number  of 
1  sorts  ■  of  moss  there  are  ;  and  I  suppose  he  only  chose  the 
word  because  it  was  a  monosyllable  beginning  with  m,  and 
the  best  English  general  expression  for  despised  and  minute 
structures  of  plants.  But  a  fate  rules  the  words  of  wise  men, 
which  makes  their  words  truer,  and  worth  more,  than  the 
men  themselves  know.  No  other  plants  have  so  endless  vari- 
ety on  so  similar  a  structure  as  the  mosses  ;  and  none  teach 
so  well  the  humility  of  Death.  As  for  the  death  of  our  bodies, 
we  have  learned,  wisely,  or  unwisely,  to  look  the  fact  of  that 
in  the  face.  But  none  of  us,  I  think,  yet  care  to  look  the  fact 
of  the  death  of  our  minds  in  the  face.  I  do  not  mean  death 
of  our  souls,  but  of  our  mental  work.  So  far  as  it  is  good 
art,  indeed,  and  done  in  realistic  form,  it  may  perhaps  not  die  ; 
but  so  far  as  it  was  only  good  thought — good,  for  its  time, 
and  apparently  a  great  achievement  therein— that  good,  use- 
ful thought  may  yet  in  the  future  become  a  foolish  thought, 
and  then  die  quite  away, — it,  and  the  memory  of  it, — when 
better  thought  and  knowledge  come.  But  the  better  thought 
could  not  have  come  if  the  weaker  thought  had  not  come 
first,  and  died  in  sustaining  the  better.  If  we  think  honestly, 
our  thoughts  will  not  only  live  usefully,  but  even  perish  use- 
fully— like  the  moss — and  become  dark,  not  without  due  ser- 
vice. But  if  we  think  dishonestly,  or  malignantly,  our  thoughts 
will  die  like  evil  fungi, — dripping  corrupt  clew. 

13.  But  farther.  If  you  have  walked  moorlands  enough  to 
know  the  look  of  them,  you  know  well  those  flat  spaces  or 
causeways  of  bright  green  or  golden  ground  between  the 
heathy  rock  masses  ;  which  signify  winding  pools  and  inlets 
of  stagnant  water  caught  among  the  rocks  ; — pools  which  the 
deep  moss  that  covers  them  blanched,  not  black,  at  the  root, 
— is  slowly  filling  and  making  firm  ;  whence  generally  the 
unsafe  ground  in  the  moorland  gets  known  by  being  mossy 
instead  of  heathy,  and  is  at  last  called  by  its  riders,  briefly, 


MOSS. 


19 


'  the  Moss ' :  and  as  it  is  mainly  at  these  same  mossy  places 
that  the  riding  is  difficult,  and  brings  out  the  gifts  of  horse 
and  rider,  and  discomfits  all  followers  not  similarly  gifted, 
the  skilled  crosser  of  them  got  his  name,  naturally,  of  '  moss- 
rider,'  or  moss-trooper.  In  which  manner  the  moss  of  Nor- 
way and  Scotland  has  been  a  taskmaster  and  Maker  of  Sol- 
diers, as  yet,  the  strongest  known  among  natural  powers.  The 
lightning  may  kill  a  man,  or  cast  down  a  tower,  but  these 
little  tender  leaves  of  moss — they  and  their  progenitors — 
have  trained  the  Northern  Armies. 

14.  So  much  for  the  human  meaning  of  that  decay  of  the 
leaves.  Now  to  go  back  to  the  little  creatures  themselves. 
It  seems  that  the  upper  part  of  the  moss  fibre  is  especially 
wndecaymg  among  leaves  ;  and  the  lower  part,  especially  de- 
caying. That,  in  fact,  a  plant  of  moss-fibre  is  a  kind  of  per- 
sistent state  of  what  is,  in  other  plants,  annual.  Watch  the 
year's  growth  of  any  luxuriant  flower.  First  it  comes  out  of 
the  ground  all  fresh  and  bright ;  then,  as  the  higher  leaves 
and  branches  shoot  up,  those  first  leaves  near  the  ground  get 
brown,  sickly,  earthy, — remain  for  ever  degraded  in  the  dust, 
and  under  the  dashed  slime  in  rain,  staining,  and  grieving, 
and  loading  them  with  obloquy  of  envious  earth,  half-killing 
them, — only  life  enough  left  in  them  to  hold  on  the  stem,  and 
to  be  guardians  of  the  rest  of  the  plant  from  all  they  suffer ; 
— while,  above  them,  the  happier  leaves,  for  whom  they  are 
thus  oppressed,  bend  freely  to  the  sunshine,  and  drink  the 
rain  pure. 

The  moss  strengthens  on  a  diminished  scale,  intensifies, 
and  makes  perpetual,  these  two  states, — bright  leaves  above 
that  never  wither,  leaves  beneath  that  exist  only  to  wither. 

15.  I  have  hitherto  spoken  only  of  the  fading  moss  as  it  is 
needed  for  change  into  earth.  But  I  am  not  sure  whether  a 
yet  more  important  office,  in  its  days  of  age,  be  not  its  use  as 
a  colour. 

"We  are  all  thankful  enough — as  far  as  we  ever  are  so — for 
green  moss,  and  yellow  moss.  But  we  are  never  enough 
grateful  for  black  moss.  The  golden  wrould  be  nothing  with- 
out it,  nor  even  the  grey. 


20 


PROSERPINA. 


It  is  true  that  there  are  black  lichens  enough,  and  brown 
ones :  nevertheless,  the  chief  use  of  lichens  is  for  silver  and 
gold  colour  on  rocks  ;  and  it  is  the  dead  moss  which  gives  the 
leopard-like  touches  of  black.  And  yet  here  again — as  to  a 
thing  I  have  been  looking  at  and  painting  all  my  life — I  am 
brought  to  pause,  the  moment  I  think  of  it  carefully.  The# 
black  moss  which  gives  the  precious  Velasquez  touches,  lies, 
much  of  it,  flat  on  the  rocks ;  radiating  from  its  centres — 
powdering  in  the  fingers,  if  one  breaks  it  off,  like  dry  tea.  Is 
it  a  black  species  ?  or  a  black-parched  state  of  other  species, 
perishing  for  the  sake  of  Velasquez  effects,  instead  of  accumu- 
lation of  earth  ?  and,  if  so,  does  it  die  of  drought,  accident- 
ally, or,  in  a  sere  old  age,  naturally  ?  and  how  is  it  related  to 
the  rich  green  bosses  that  grow  in  deep  velvet  ?  And  there 
again  is  another  matter  not  clear  to  me.  One  calls  them 
'  velvet '  because  they  are  all  brought  to  an  even  surface  at 
the  top.  Our  own  velvet  is  reduced  to  such  trimness  by  cut- 
ting. But  how  is  the  moss  trimmed?  By  what  scissors? 
Carefullest  Elizabethan  gardener  never  shaped  his  yew  hedge 
more  daintily  than  the  moss  fairies  smooth  these  soft  rounded 
surfaces  of  green  and  gold.  And  just  fancy  the  difference, 
if  they  were  ragged  !  If  the  fibres  had  every  one  of  them 
leave  to  grow  at  their  own  sweet  will,  and  to  be  long  or  short 
as  they  liked,  or,  worse  still,  urged  by  fairy  prizes  into  labo- 
riously and  agonizingly  trying  which  could  grow  longest. 
Fancy  the  surface  of  a  spot  of  competitive  moss  ! 

16.  But  how  is  it  that  they  are  subdued  into  that  spherical 
obedience,  like  a  crystal  of  wavellite  ?  *  Strange — that  the 
vegetable  creatures  growing  so  fondly  on  rocks  should  form 
themselves  in  that  mineral-like  manner.  It  is  true  that  the 
tops  of  all  well-grown  trees  are  rounded,  on  a  large  scale,  as 
equally  ;  but  that  is  because  they  grow  from  a  central  stem, 
while  these  mossy  mounds  are  made  out  of  independent  fila- 
ments, each  growing  to  exactly  his  proper  height  in  the  sphere 
— short  ones  outside,  long  in  the  middle.  Stop,  though  ;  is 
that  so  ?    I  am  not  even  sure  of  that ;  perhaps  they  are  built 

*  The  reader  should  buy  a  small  specimen  of  this  mineral  ;  it  is  a 
useful  type  of  many  structures. 


MOSS. 


21 


over  a  little  dome  of  decayed  moss  below.*  I  must  find  out 
how  every  filament  grows,  separately — from  root  to  cap, 
through  the  spirally  set  leaves.  And  meanwhile  I  don't  know 
very  clearly  so  much  as  what  a  root  is — or  what  a  leaf  is.  Be- 
fore puzzling  myself  any  farther  in  examination  either  of  moss 
or  any  other  grander  vegetable,  I  had  better  define  these  pri- 
mal forms  of  all  vegetation,  as  well  as  I  can — or  rather  begin 
the  definition  of  them,  for  future  completion  and  correction. 
For,  as  my  reader  must  already  sufficiently  perceive,  this  book 
is  literally  to  be  one  of  studies — not  of  statements.  Some  one 
said  of  me  once,  very  shrewdly,  When  he  wants  to  work  out 
a  subject,  he  writes  a  book  on  it.  That  is  a  very  true  saying 
in  the  main, — I  work  down  or  up  to  my  mark,  and  let  the 
reader  see  process  and  progress,  not  caring  to  conceal  them. 
But  this  book  will  be  nothing  but  process.  I  don't  mean  to 
assert  anything  positively  in  it  from  the  first  page  to  the  last. 

*  Lucca,  Aug.  9th,  1874. — I  have  left  this  passage  as  originally  writ- 
ten, but  I  believe  the  dome  is  of  accumulated  earth.  Bringing  home, 
here,  evening  after  evening,  heaps  of  all  kinds  of  mosses  from  the  hills 
among  which  the  Archbishop  Ruggieri  was  hunting  the  wolf  and  her 
whelps  in  Ugolino's  dream,  I  am  more  and  more  struck,  every  day,  with 
their  special  function  as  earth-gatherers,  and  with  the  enormous  im- 
portance to  their  own  brightness,  and  to  our  service,  of  that  dark  and 
degraded  state  of  the  inferior  leaves.  And  it  fastens  itself  in  my  mind 
mainly  as  their  distinctive  character,  that  as  the  leaves  of  a  tree  become 
wood,  so  the  leaves  of  a  moss  become  earth,  while  yet  a  normal  part  of 
the  plant.  Here  is  a  cake  in  my  hand  weighing  half  a  pound,  bright 
green  on  the  surface,  with  minute  crisp  leaves ;  but  an  inch  thick  be- 
neath in  what  looks  at  first  like  clay,  but  is  indeed  knitted  fibre  of  ex- 
hausted moss.  Also,  I  don't  at  all  find  the  generalization  I  made  from 
the  botanical  books  likely  to  have  occurred  to  me  from  the  real  things. 
No  moss  leaves  that  I  can  find  here  give  me  the  idea  of  resemblance  to 
pineapple  leaves;  nor  do  I  see  any,  through  my  weak  lens,  clearly  ser- 
rated ;  but  I  do  find  a  general  tendency  to  run  into  a  silky  filamentous 
structure,  and  in  some,  especially  on  a  small  one  gathered  from  the 
fissures  in  the  marble  of  the  cathedral,  white  threads  of  considerable 
length  at  the  extremities  of  the  leaves,  of  which  threads  I  remember 
no  drawing  or  notice  in  the  botanical  books.  Figure  1  represents,  mag- 
nified, a  cluster  of  these  leaves,  with  the  germinating  stalk  springing 
from  their  centre ;  but  my  scrawl  was  tired  and  careless,  and  for  once, 
Mr.  Burgess  has  copied  too  accurately. 


PROSERPINA. 


Whatever  I  say,  is  to  be  understood  only  as  a  conditional 
statement — liable  to,  and  inviting,  correction.  And  this  the 
more  because,  as  on  the  whole,  I  am  at  war  with  the  botanists, 
I  can't  ask  them  to  help  me,  and  then  call  them  names  after- 
wards. I  hope  only  for  a  contemptuous  heaping  of  coals  on 
my  head  by  correction  of  my  errors  from  them  ;  in  some  cases, 
my  scientific  friends  will,  I  know,  give  me  forgiving  aid ; — 
but,  for  many  reasons,  I  am  forced  first  to  print  the  imperfect 
statement,  as  I  can  independently  shape  it ;  for  if  once  I  asked 
for,  or  received  help,  every  thought  would  be  frost-bitten 
into  timid  expression,  and  every  sentence  broken  by  apology. 
I  should  have  to  write  a  dozen  of  letters  before  I  could  print 
a  line,  and  the  line,  at  last,  would  be  only  like  a  bit  of  any 
other  botanical  book — trustworthy,  it  might  be,  perhaps  ;  but 
certainly  unreadable.  Whereas  now,  it  will  rather  put  things 
more  forcibly  in  the  reader's  mind  to  have  them  retouched 
and  corrected  as  we  go  on  ;  and  our  natural  and  honest  mis- 
takes will  often  be  suggestive  of  things  we  could  not  have 
discovered  but  by  wandering. 

On  these  guarded  conditions,  then,  I  proceed  to  study,  with 
my  reader,  the  first  general  laws  of  vegetable  form. 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE  BOOT. 

1.  Plants  in  their  perfect  form  consist  of  four  principal 
parts, — the  Boot,  Stem,  Leaf,  and  Flower.  It  is  true  that  the 
stem  and  flower  are  parts,  or  remnants,  or  altered  states,  of 
the  leaves  ;  and  that,  speaking  with  close  accuracy,  we  might 
say,  a  perfect  plant  consists  of  leaf  and  root.  But  the  division 
into  these  four  parts  is  best  for  practical  purposes,  and  it  will 
be  desirable  to  note  a  few  general  facts  about  each,  before 
endeavouring  to  describe  any  one  kind  of  plant.  Only,  be- 
cause the  character  of  the  stem  depends  on  the  nature  of  the 
leaf  and  flower,  we  must  put  it  last  in  order  of  examination ; 
and  trace  the  development  of  the  plant  first  in  root  and  leaf ; 
then  in  the  flower  and  its  fruit ;  and  lastly  in  the  stem. 


THE  ROOT. 


2.  First,  then,  the  Root. 

Every  plant  is  divided,  as  I  just  said,  in  the  main,  into  two 
parts,  and  these  have  opposite  natures.  One  part  seeks  the 
light ;  the  other  hates  it.  One  part  feeds  on  the  air  ;  the  other 
on  the  dust. 

The  part  that  loves  the  light  is  called  the  Leaf.  It  is  an  old 
Saxon  word  ;  I  cannot  get  at  its  origin.  The  part  that  hates 
the  light  is  called  the  Root, 

In  Greek,  /St'fa,  Rhiza.* 

In  Latin,  Radix,  "the  growing  thing,"  which  shortens,  in 
French,  into  Race,  and  then  they  put  on  the  diminutive  '  ine,' 
and  get  their  two  words,  Race,  and  Racine,  of  which  we  keep 
Race  for  animals,  and  use  for  vegetables  a  word  of  our  own 
Saxon  (and  Dutch)  dialect, — c  root ; '  (connected  with  Rood 
— an  image  of  wood  ;  whence  at  last  the  Holy  Rood,  or  Tree). 

3.  The  Root  has  three  great  functions  : 
1st.  To  hold  the  plant  in  its  place. 

2nd.  To  nourish  it  with  earth. 
3rd.  To  receive  vital  power  for  it  from  the  earth. 
"With  this  last  office  is  in  some  degree, — and  especially  in 
certain  plants, — connected,  that  of  reproduction. 

But  in  all  plants  the  root  has  these  three  essential  func- 
tions. 

First,  I  said,  to  hold  the  Plant  in  its  place.  The  Root  is  its 
Fetter. 

You  think  it,  perhaps,  a  matter  of  course  that  a  plant  is  not 
to  be  a  crawling  thing  ?  It  is  not  a  matter  of  course  at  all. 
A  vegetable  might  be  just  what  it  is  now,  as  compared  with 
an  animal ; — might  live  on  earth  and  water  instead  of  on  meat, 
— might  be  as  senseless  in  life,  as  calm  in  death,  and  in  all  its 
parts  and  apparent  structure  unchanged  ;  and  yet  be  a  crawl- 
ing thing.  It  is  quite  as  easy  to  conceive  plants  moving  about 
like  lizards,  putting  forward  first  one  root  and  then  another, 
as  it  is  to  think  of  them  fastened  to  their  place.  It  might  have 
been  well  for  them,  one  would  have  thought,  to  have  the  power 

*  Learn  this  word,  at  any  rate  ;  and  if  you  know  any  Greek,  learn 
also  this  group  of  words  :  "  ws  pl(a  ii/  yrj  St^wi?,"  which  you  may  chance 
to  meet  with,  and  even  to  think  about,  some  day. 


24 


PROSERPINA. 


of  going  down  to  the  streams  to  drink,  in  time  of  drought ; — of 
migrating  in  winter  with  grim  march  from  north  to  south  of 
Dunsinane  Hill  side.  But  that  is  not  their  appointed  Fate.  They 
are — at  least  all  the  noblest  of  them,  rooted  to  their  spot. 
Their  honour  and  use  is  in  giving  immoveable  shelter, — in 
remaining  landmarks,  or  lovemarks,  when  all  else  is  changed : 

"  The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judali's  statelier  maids  are  gone." 

4.  Its  root  is  thus  a  form  of  fate  to  the  tree.  It  condemns, 
or  indulges  it,  in  its  place.  These  semi-living  creatures,  come 
what  may,  shall  abide,  happy,  or  tormented.  No  doubt  con- 
cerning "  the  position  in  which  Providence  has  placed  them" 
is  to  trouble  their  minds,  except  so  far  as  they  can  mend  it 
by  seeking  light,  or  shrinking  from  wind,  or  grasping  at  sup- 
port, within  certain  limits.  In  the  thoughts  of  men  they 
have  thus  become  twofold  images, — on  the  one  side,  of  spirits 
restrained  and  half  destroyed,  whence  the  fables  of  transfor- 
mation into  trees  ;  on  the  other,  of  spirits  patient  and  con- 
tinuing, having  root  in  themselves  and  in  good  ground, 
capable  of  all  persistent  effort  and  vital  stability,  both  in  them- 
selves, and  for  the  human  States  they  form. 

5.  In  this  function  of  holding  fast,  roots  have  a  power  of 
grasp  quite  different  from  that  of  branches.  It  is  not  a  grasp, 
or  clutch  by  contraction,  as  that  of  a  bird's  claw,  or  of  the 
small  branches  we  call  '  tendrils '  in  climbing  plants.  It  is  a 
dead,  clumsy,  but  inevitable  grasp,  by  swelling,  after  contor- 
tion. For  there  is  this  main  difference  between  a  branch  and 
root,  that  a  branch  cannot  grow  vividly  but  in  certain  direc- 
tions and  relations  to  its  neighbour  branches  ;  but  a  root  can 
grow  wherever  there  is  earth,  and  can  turn  in  any  direction 
to  avoid  an  obstacle.* 

*  u  Duhamel,  botanist  of  the  last  century,  tells  us  that,  wishing  to 
preserve  a  field  of  good  land  from  the  roots  of  an  avenue  of  elms  which 
were  exhausting  it,  he  cut  a  ditch  between  the  field  and  avenue  to  in- 
tercept the  roots.  But  he  saw  with  surprise  those  of  the  roots  which 
had  not  been  cut,  go  down  behind  the  slope  of  the  ditch  to  keep  out  of 


THIS  ROOT. 


25 


6.  In  thus  contriving  access  for  itself  where  it  chooses,  a 
root  contorts  itself  into  more  serpent-like  writhing  than 
branches  can  ;  and  when  it  has  once  coiled  partly  round  a 
rock,  or  stone,  it  grasps  it  tight,  necessarily,  merely  by  swell- 
ing. Now  a  root  has  force  enough  sometimes  to  split  rocks, 
but  not  to  crush  them  ;  so  it  is  compelled  to  grasp  by  flatten- 
ing as  it  thickens  ;  and,  as  it  must  have  room  somewhere,  it 
alters  its  own  shape  as  if  it  were  made  of  dough,  and  holds 
the  rock,  not  in  a  claw,  but  in  a  wooden  cast  or  mould,  ad- 
hering to  its  surface.  And  thus  it  not  only  finds  its  anchor- 
age in  the  rock,  but  binds  the  rocks  of  its  anchorage  with  a 
constrictor  cable. 

7.  Hence — and  this  is  a  most  important  secondary  function 
— roots  bind  together  the  ragged  edges  of  rocks  as  a  hem 
does  the  torn  edge  of  a  dress  :  they  literally  stitch  the  stones 
together  ;  so  that,  while  it  is  always  dangerous  to  pass  under 
a  treeless  edge  of  overhanging  crag,  as  soon  as  it  has  become 
beautiful  with  trees,  it  is  safe  also.  The  rending  power  of 
roots  on  rocks  has  been  greatly  overrated.  Capillary  attrac- 
tion in  a  willow  wand  will  indeed  split  granite,  and  swelling 
roots  sometimes  heave  considerable  masses  aside,  but  on  the 
whole,  roots,  small  and  great,  bind,  and  do  not  rend.*  The 
surfaces  of  mountains  are  dissolved  and  disordered,  by  rain, 
and  frost,  and  chemical  decomposition,  into  mere  heaps  of 
loose  stones  on  their  desolate  summits  ;  but,  where  the  forests 
grow,  soil  accumulates  and  disintegration  ceases.  And  by  cut- 
ting down  forests  on  great  mountain  slopes,  not  only  is  the 
climate  destroyed,  but  the  danger  of  superficial  landslip  fear- 
fully increased. 

8.  The  second  function  of  roots  is  to  gather  for  the  plant 
the  nourishment  it  needs  from  the  ground.  This  is  partly 
water,  mixed  with  some  kinds  of  air  (ammonia,  etc.,)  but  the 

tlie  light,  go  under  the  ditch,  and  into  the  field  again."  And  the  Swiss 
naturalist  Bonnet  said  wittily,  apropos  of  a  wonder  of  this  sort,  "  that 
sometimes  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  a  cat  from  a  rosebush." 

*  As  the  first  great  office  of  the  mosses  is  the  gathering  of  earth,  so 
that  of  the  grasses  is  the  binding  of  it.  Theirs  the  Enchanter's  toil,  not 
in  vain, — making  ropes  out  of  sea-sand. 


26 


PROSERPINA. 


plant  can  get  both  water  and  ammonia  from  the  atmosphere  ; 
and,  I  believe,  for  the  most  part  does  so ;  though,  when  it 
cannot  get  water  from  the  air,  it  will  gladly  drink  by  its  roots. 
But  the  things  it  cannot  receive  from  the  air  at  all  are  certain 
earthy  salts,  essential  to  it  (as  iron  is  essential  in  our  own 
blood),  and  of  which  when  it  has  quite  exhausted  the  earth,  no 
more  such  plants  can  grow  in  that  ground.  On  this  subject 
you  will  find  enough  in  any  modern  treatise  on  agriculture  ; 
all  that  I  want  you  to  note  here  is  that  this  feeding  function  of 
the  root  is  of  a  very  delicate  and  discriminating  kind,  needing 
much  searching  and  mining  among  the  dust,  to  find  what  it 
wants.  If  it  only  wanted  water,  it  could  get  most  of  that  by 
spreading  in  mere  soft  senseless  limbs,  like  sponge,  as  far, 
and  as  far  down,  as  it  could — but  to  get  the  salt  out  of  the 
earth  it  has  to  sift  all  the  earth,  and  taste  and  touch  every 
grain  of  it  that  it  can,  with  fine  fibres.  And  therefore  a  root 
is  not  at  all  a  merely  passive  sponge  or  absorbing  thing,  but 
an  infinitely  subtle  tongue,  or  tasting  and  eating  thing.  That 
is  why  it  is  always  so  fibrous  and  divided  and  entangled  in 
the  clinging  earth. 

9.  "Always  fibrous  and  divided"?  But  many  roots  are 
quite  hard  and  solid  ! 

No  ;  the  active  part  of  the  root  is  always,  I  believe,  a  fibre. 
But  there  is  often  a  provident  and  passive  part — a  savings 
bank  of  root — in  which  nourishment  is  laid  up  for  the  plant, 
and  which,  though  it  may  be  underground,  is  no  more  to  be 
considered  its  real  root  than  the  kernel  of  a  seed  is.  "When 
you  sow  a  pea,  if  you  take  it  up  in  a  day  or  two,  you  will  find 
the  fibre  below,  which  is  root ;  the  shoot  above,  which  is  plant : 
and  the  pea  as  a  now  partly  exhausted  storehouse,  looking  very 
woful,  and  like  the  granaries  of  Paris  after  the  fire.  So  the 
round  solid  root  of  a  cyclamen,  or  the  conical  one  which  you 
know  so  well  as  a  carrot,  are  not  properly  roots,  but  perma- 
nent storehouses, — only  the  fibres  that  grow  from  them  are  roots. 
Then  there  are  other  apparent  roots  which  are  not  even  store- 
houses, but  refuges  ;  houses  where  the  little  plant  lives  in  its 
infancy,  through  winter  and  rough  weather.  So  that  it  will 
be  best  for  you  at  once  to  limit  your  idea  of  a  root  to  this, — 


THE  ROOT. 


27 


that  it  is  a  group  of  growing  fibres  which  taste  and  suck  what 
is  good  for  the  plant  out  of  the  ground,  and  by  their  united 
strength  hold  it  in  its  place  :  only  remember  the  thick  limbs 
of  roots  do  not  feed,  but  only  the  fine  fibres  at  the  ends  of 
them  which  are  something  between  tongues  and  sponges,  and 
while  they  absorb  moisture  readily,  are  yet  as  particular  about 
getting  what  they  think  nice  to  eat  as  any  dainty  little  boy  or 
girl ;  looking  for  it  everywhere,  and  turning  angry  and  sulky 
if  they  don't  get  it. 

10.  But  the  root  has,  it  seems  to  me,  one  more  function, 
the  most  important  of  all.  I  say,  it  seems  to  me,  for  observe, 
what  I  have  hitherto  told  you  is  all  (I  believe)  ascertained  and 
admitted  ;  this  that  I  am  going  to  tell  you  has  not  yet,  as  far 
as  I  know,  been  asserted  by  men  of  science,  though  I  believe 
it  to  be  demonstrable.  But  you  are  to  examine  into  it,  and 
think  of  it  for  yourself. 

There  are  some  plants  which  appear  to  derive  all  their  food 
from  the  air — which  need  nothing  but  a  slight  grasp  of  the 
ground  to  fix  them  in  their  place.  Yet  if  we  were  to  tie  them 
into  that  place,  in  a  framework,  and  cut  them  from  their  roots, 
they  would  die.  Not  only  in  these,  but  in  all  other  plants, 
the  vital  power  by  which  they  shape  and  feed  themselves, 
whatever  that  power  may  be,  depends,  I  think,  on  that  slight 
touch  of  the  earth,  and  strange  inheritance  of  its  power.  It 
is  as  essential  to  the  plant's  life  as  the  connection  of  the  head 
of  an  animal  with  its  body  by  the  spine  is  to  the  animal. 
Divide  the  feeble  nervous  thread,  and  all  life  ceases.  Nay,  in 
the  tree  the  root  is  even  of  greater  importance.  You  will  not 
kill  the  tree,  as  you  would  an  animal,  by  dividing  its  body  or 
trunk.  The  part  not  severed  from  the  root  will  shoot  again. 
But  in  the  root,  and  its  touch  of  the  ground,  is  the  life  of  it. 
My  own  definition  of  a  plant  w7ould  be  u  a  living  creature 
whose  source  of  vital  energy  is  in  the  earth  "  (or  in  the  water, 
as  a  form  of  the  earth  ;  that  is,  in  inorganic  substance).  There 
is,  however,  one  tribe  of  plants  which  seems  nearly  excepted 
from  this  law.  It  is  a  very  strange  one,  having  long  been 
noted  for  the  resemblance  of  its  flowers  to  different  insects  ; 
and  it  has  recently  been  proved  by  Mr.  Darwin  to  be  depend- 


2$ 


PROSERPINA. 


ent  on  insects  for  its  existence.  Doubly  strange  therefore,  it 
seems,  that  in  some  cases  this  race  of  plants  all  but  reaches 
the  independent  life  of  insects.  It  rather  settles  upon  boughs 
than  roots  itself  in  them  ;  half  of  its  roots  may  wave  in  the  air. 

11.  What  vital  power  is,  men  of  science  are  not  a  step 
nearer  knowing  than  they  were  four  thousand  years  ago.  They 
are,  if  anything,  farther  from  knowing  now  than  then,  in  that 
they  imagine  themselves  nearer..  But  they  know  more  about 
its  limitations  and  manifestations  than  they  did.  They  have 
even  arrived  at  something  like  a  proof  that  there  is  a  fixed 
quantity  of  it  flowing  out  of  things  and  into  them.  But,  for 
the  present,  rest  content  with  the  general  and  sure  knowledge 
that,  fixed  or  flowing,  measurable  or  immeasurable — one  with 
electricity  or  heat  or  light,  or  quite  distinct  from  any  of  them — 
life  is  a  delightful,  and  its  negative,  death,  a  dreadful  thing,  to 
human  creatures  ;  and  that  you  can  give  or  gather  a  certain 
quantity  of  life  into  plants,  animals,  and  yourself  by  wisdom 
and  courage,  and  by  their  reverses  can  bring  upon  them  any 
quantity  of  death  you  please,  which  is  a  much  more  serious 
point  for  you  to  consider  than  what  life  and  death  are. 

12.  Now,  having  got  a  quite  clear  idea  of  a  root  property  so 
called,  we  may  observe  what  those  storehouses,  refuges,  and 
ruins  are,  which  we  find  connected  with  roots.  The  greater 
number  of  plants  feed  and  grow  at  the  same  time  ;  but  there 
are  some  of  them  which  like  to  feed  first  and  grow  afterwards. 
For  the  first  year,  or,  at  all  events,  the  first  period  of  their 
life,  they  gather  material  for  their  future  life  out  of  the  ground 
and  out  of  the  air,  and  lay  it  up  in  a  storehouse  as  bees  make 
combs.  Of  these  stores — for  the  most  part  rounded  masses 
tapering  downwards  into  the  ground — some  are  as  good  for  hu- 
man beings  as  honeycombs  are  ;  only  not  so  sweet.  We  steal 
them  from  the  plants,  as  Ave  do  from  the  bees,  and  these  conical 
upside-down  hives  or  treasuries  of  Atreus,  under  the  names  of 
carrots,  turnips,  and  radishes,  have  had  important  influence 
on  human  fortunes.  If  we  do  not  steal  the  store,  next  year 
the  plant  lives  upon  it,  raises  its  stem,  flowers  and  seeds  out 
of  that  abundance,  and  having  fulfilled  its  destiny,  and  pro- 
vided for  its  successor,  passes  away,  root  and  branch  together. 


THE  ROOT. 


13.  There  is  a  pretty  example  of  patience  for  us  in  this ; 
and  it  would  be  well  for  young  people  generally  to  set  them- 
selves to  grow  in  a  carrotty  or  turnippy  manner,  and  lay  up 
secret  store,  not  caring  to  exhibit  it  until  the  time  comes  for 
fruitful  display.  But  they  must  not,  in  after-life,  imitate  the 
spendthrift  vegetable,  and  blossom  only  in  the  strength  of 
what  they  learned  long  ago ;  else  they  soon  come  to  contemp- 
tible end.  Wise  people  live  like  laurels  and  cedars,  and  go  on 
mining  in  the  earth,  while  they  adorn  and  embalm  the  air. 

14.  Secondly,  Refuges.  As  flowers  growing  on  trees  have 
to  live  for  some  time,  when  they  are  young  in  their  buds,  so 
some  flowers  growing  on  the  ground  have  to  live  for  a  while, 
when  they  are  young,  in  what  we  call  their  roots.  These  are 
mostly  among  the  Drosidas*  and  other  humble  tribes,  loving 
the  ground ;  and,  in  their  babyhood,  liking  to  live  quite  down 
in  it.  A  baby  crocus  has  literally  its  own  little  dome — domus, 
or  duomo — within  which  in  early  spring  it  lives  a  delicate  con- 
vent life  of  its  own,  quite  free  from  all  worldly  care  and  dan- 
gers, exceedingly  ignorant  of  things  in  general,  but  itself 
brightly  golden  and  perfectly  formed  before  it  is  brought  out. 
These  subterranean  palaces  and  vaulted  cloisters,  which  we 
call  bulbs,  are  no  more  roots  than  the  blade  of  grass  is  a  root, 
in  which  the  ear  of  corn  forms  before  it  shoots  up. 

15.  Thirdly,  Ruins.  The  flowers  which  have  these  subter- 
ranean homes  form  one  of  many  families  whose  roots,  as  well 
as  seeds,  have  the  power  of  reproduction.  The  succession  of 
some  plants  is  trusted  much  to  their  seeds  :  a  thistle  sows  it- 
self by  its  down,  an  oak  by  its  acorns ;  the  companies  of  flying 
emigrants  settle  where  they  may  ;  and  the  shadowy  tree  is 
content  to  cast  down  its  showers  of  nuts  for  swine's  food  with 
the  chance  that  here  and  there  one  may  become  a  ship's  bul- 
wark. But  others  among  plants  are  less  careless,  or  less 
proud.  Many  are  anxious  for  their  children  to  grow  in  the 
place  where  they  grew  themselves,  and  secure  this  not  merely 
by  letting  their  fruit  fall  at  their  feet,  on  the  chance  of  its 

*  Drosidae,  in  our  school  nomenclature,  is  the  general  name,  includ- 
ing the  four  great  tribes,  iris,  asphodel,  amaryllis,  and  lily.  See  reason 
for  this  name  given  in  the  '  Queen  of  the  Air/  Section  II. 


30 


PROSERPINA. 


growing  up  beside  them,  but  by  closer  bond,  bud  springing 
forth  from  root,  and  the  young  plant  being  animated  by  the 
gradually  surrendered  life  of  its  parent.  Sometimes  the  young 
root  is  formed  above  the  old  one,  as  in  the  crocus,  or  beside 
it,  as  in  the  amaryllis,  or  beside  it  in  a  spiral  succession,  as  in 
the  orchis  ;  in  these  cases  the  old  root  always  perishes  wholly 
when  the  young  one  is  formed  ;  but  in  a  far  greater  number 
of  tribes,  one  root  connects  itself  with  another  by  a  short 
piece  of  intermediate  stem  ;  and  this  stern  does  not  at  once 
perish  when  the  new  root  is  formed,  but  grows  on  at  one  end 
indefinitely,  perishing  slowly  at  the  other,  the  scars  or  ruins 
of  the  past  plants  being  long  traceable  on  its  sides.  When  it 
grows  entirely  underground  it  is  called  a  root-stock.  But 
there  is  no  essential  distinction  between  a  root-stock  and  a 
creeping  stem,  only  the  root-stock  may  be  thought  of  as  a 
stem  which  shares  the  melancholy  humour  of  a  root  in  lov- 
ing darkness,  while  yet  it  has  enough  consciousness  of  better 
things  to  grow  towards,  or  near,  the  light.  In  one  family  it 
is  even  fragrant  where  the  flower  is  not,  and  a  simple  house- 
leek  is  called  '  rhodiola  rosea/  because  its  root-stock  has  the 
scent  of  a  rose. 

16.  There  is  one  very  unusual  condition  of  the  root-stock 
which  has  become  of  much  importance  in  economy,  though  it 
is  of  little  in  botany  ;  the  forming,  namely,  of  knots  at  the 
ends  of  the  branches  of  the  underground  stem,  where  the  new 
roots  are  to  be  thrown  out.  Of  these  knots,  or  6  tubers/ 
(swollen  things,)  one  kind,  belonging  to  the  tobacco  tribe,  has 
been  singularly  harmful,  together  with  its  pungent  relative, 
to  a  neighbouring  country  of  ours,  which  perhaps  may  reach 
a  higher  destiny  than  any  of  its  friends  can  conceive  for  it,  if 
it  can  ever  succeed  in  living  without  either  the  potato,  or  the 
pipe. 

17.  Being  prepared  now  to  find  among  plants  many  things 
which  are  like  roots,  yet  are  not  :  you  may  simplify  and  make 
fast  your  true  idea  of  a  root  as  a  fibre  or  group  of  fibres, 
which  fixes,  animates,  and  partly  feeds  the  leaf.  Then  prac- 
tically, as  you  examine  plants  in  detail,  ask  first  respecting 
them  :  What  kind  of  root  have  they  ?    Is  it  large  or  small  in 


THE  LEAF. 


31 


proportion  to  their  bulk,  and  why  is  it  so  ?  What  soil  does 
it  like,  and  what  properties  does  it  acquire  from  it  ?  The  en- 
deavour to  answer  these  questions  will  soon  lead  you  to  a 
rational  inquiry  into  the  plant's  history.  You  will  first  ascer- 
tain what  rock  or  earth  it  delights  in,  and  what  climate  and 
circumstances  ;  then  you  will  see  how  its  root  is  fitted  to  sus- 
tain it  mechanically  under  given  pressures  and  violences,  and 
to  find  for  it  the  necessary  sustenance  under  given  difficulties 
of  famine  or  drought.  Lastly  you  will  consider  what  chemi- 
cal actions  appear  to  be  going  on  in  the  root,  or  its  store ; 
what  processes  there  are,  and  elements,  which  give  pungency 
to  the  radish,  flavour  to  the  onion,  or  sweetness  to  the  liquor- 
ice ;  and  of  what  service  each  root  may  be  made  capable 
under  cultivation,  and  by  proper  subsequent  treatment,  either 
to  animals  or  men. 

18.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  do  any  of  this  for  you  ;  I  assume, 
in  giving  this  advice,  that  you  wish  to  pursue  the  science  of 
botany  as  your  chief  study  ;  I  have  only  broken  moments  for 
it,  snatched  from  my  chief  occupations,  and  I  have  done  noth- 
ing myself  of  all  this  I  tell  you  to  do.  But  so  far  as  you  can 
work  in  this  manner,  even  if  you  only  ascertain  the  history  of 
one  plant,  so  that  }^ou  know  that  accurately,  you  will  have 
helped  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a  true  science  of  botany,  from 
which  the  mass  of  useless  nomenclature,*  now  mistaken  for 
science,  will  fall  away,  as  the  husk  of  a  poppy  falls  from  the 
bursting  flower. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LEAF. 

1.  In  the  first  of  the  poems  of  which  the  English  Govern- 
ment has  appointed  a  portion  to  be  sung  every  day  for  the  in- 

*  The  only  use  of  a  great  part  of  our  existing  nomenclature  is  to  en- 
able one  botanist  to  describe  to  another  a  plant  which  the  other  has  not 
seen.  When  the  science  becomes  approximately  perfect,  all  known 
plants  will  be  properly  figured,  so  that  nobody  need  describe  them  ;  and 
unknown  plants  be  so  rare  that  nobody  will  care  to  learn  a  new  and  dif- 
ficult language,  in  order  to  be  able  lo  give  an  account  of  what  in  all 
probability  he  will  never  see. 


32 


PROSERPINA. 


struction  and  pleasure  of  the  people,  there  occurs  this  curi- 
ous statement  respecting  any  person  who  will  behave  himself 
rightly  :  "He  shall  be  like  a  tree  planted  by  the  river  side, 
that  bears  its  fruit  in  its  season.  His  leaf  also  shall  not 
wither  ;  and  you  will  see  that  whatever  he  does  will  prosper.5' 
I  call  it  a  curious  statement,  because  the  conduct  to  which 
this  prosperity  is  promised  is  not  that  which  the  English, 
as  a  nation,  at  present  think  conducive  to  prosperity  :  but 
whether  the  statement  be  true  or  not,  it  will  be  easy  for  you 
to  recollect  the  two  eastern  figures  under  which  the  happiness 
of  the  man  is  represented, — that  he  is  like  a  tree  bearing  fruit 
"  in  its  season ; "  (not  so  hastily  as  that  the  frost  pinch  it,  nor 
so  late  that  no  sun  ripens  it  ;)  and  that  "  his  leaf  shall  not 
fade."  I  should  like  you  to  recollect  this  phrase  in  the  Vul- 
gate— "  folium  ejus  non  defluet  " — shall  not  fall  away, — that 
is  to  say,  shall  not  fall  so  as  to  leave  any  visible  bareness  in 
winter  time,  but  only  that  others  may  come  up  in  its  place, 
and  the  tree  be  always  green. 

2.  Now,  you  know,  the  fruit  of  the  tree  is  either  for  the 
continuance  of  its  race,  or  for  the  good,  or  harm,  of  other 
creatures.  In  no  case  is  it  a  good  to  the  tree  itself.  It  is  not 
indeed,  properly,  a  part  of  the  tree  at  all,  any  more  than  the 
egg  is  part  of  the  bird,  or  the  young  of  any  creature  part  of 
the  creature  itself.  But  in  the  leaf  is  the  strength  of  the  tree 
itself.  Nay,  rightly  speaking,  the  leaves  are  the  tree  itself. 
Its  trunk  sustains  ;  its  fruit  burdens  and  exhausts  ;  but  in  the 
leaf  it  breathes  and  lives.  And  thus  also,  in  the  eastern  sym- 
bolism, the  fruit  is  the  labour  of  men  for  others  ;  but  the 
leaf  is  their  own  life.  "He  shall  bring  forth  fruit,  in  his 
time  ;  and  his  own  joy  and  strength  shall  be  continual." 

3.  Notice  next  the  word  'folium.'  In  Greek,  cj>v\\ov, 
'phyllon.' 

"The  thing  that  is  born,"  or  "put  forth."  "When  the 
branch  is  tender,  and  putteth  forth  her  leaves,  ye  know  that 
summer  is  nigh."  The  botanists  say,  "  The  leaf  is  an  expan- 
sion of  the  bark  of  the  stem."  More  accurately,  the  bark  is  a 
contraction  of  the  tissue  of  the  leaf.  For  every  leaf  is  born 
out  of  the  earth,  and  breathes  out  of  the  air  ;  and  there  are 


THE  LEAF. 


33 


many  leaves  that  have  no  stems,  but  only  roots.  It  is  '  the 
springing  thing  * ;  this  thin  film  of  life  ;  rising,  with  its  edge 
out  of  the  ground — infinitely  feeble,  infinitely  fair.  With 
Folium,  in  Latin,  is  rightly  associated  the  word  Flos  ;  for  the 
flower  is  only  a  group  of  singularly  happy  leaves.  From 
these  two  roots  come  foglio,  feuille,  feuillage,  and  fleur ; — 
blurne,  blossom,  and  bloom  ;  our  foliage,  and  the  borrowed 
foil,  and  the  connected  technical  groups  of  words  in  archi- 
tecture and  the  sciences. 

4  This  thin  film,  I  said.  That  is  the  essential  character  of 
a  leaf ;  to  be  thin, — widely  spread  out  in  proportion  to  its 
mass.  It  is  the  opening  of  the  substance  of  the  earth  to  the 
air,  which  is  the  giver  of  life.  The  Greeks  called  it,  there- 
fore, not  only  the  born  or  blooming  thing,  but  the  spread  or 
expanded  thing — "  7rera\ov"  Pindar  calls  the  beginnings  of 
quarrel,  "petals  of  quarrel."  Recollect,  therefore,  this  form, 
Petalos  ;  and  connect  it  with  Petasos,  the  expanded  cap  of 
Mercury.  For  one  great  use  of  both  is  to  give  shade.  The 
root  of  all  these  words  is  said  to  be  IIET  (Pet),  which  may 
easily  be  remembered  in  Greek,  as  it  sometimes  occurs  in  no 
unpleasant  sense  in  English. 

5.  But  the  word  '  petalos '  is  connected  in  Greek  with  an- 
other word,  meaning  to  fly, — so  that  you  may  think  of  a  bird 
as  spreading  its  petals  to  the  wind  ;  and  with  another,  signi- 
fying Fate  in  its  pursuing  flight,  the  overtaking  thing,  or 
overflying  Fate.  Finally,  there  is  another  Greek  word  mean- 
ing 'wide,'  7r\aTvs  (platys)  ;  whence  at  last  our*  plate' — a 
thing  made  broad  or  extended — but  especially  made  broad  or 
■  flat '  out  of  the  solid,  as  in  a  lump  of  clay  extended  on  the 
wheel,  or  a  lump  of  metal  extended  by  the  hammer.  So  the 
first  we  call  Platter  ;  the  second  Plate,  when  of  the  precious 
metals.  Then  putting  b  for  p,  and  d  for  t,  we  get  the  blade 
of  an  oar,  and  blade  of  grass. 

6.  Now  gather  a  branch  of  laurel,  and  look  at  it  carefully. 
You  may  read  the  history  of  the  being  of  half  the  earth  in 
one  of  those  green  oval  leaves — the  things  that  the  sun  and 
the  rivers  have  made  out  of  dry  ground.  Daphne — daughter 
of  Enipeus,  and  beloved  by  the  Sun,— that  fable  gives  you  at 

Vol.  I. — 3 


84 


PROSERPINA. 


once  the  two  great  facts  about  vegetation.  "Where  warmth  is. 
and  moisture — there  also,  the  leaf.  Where  no  warmth — there 
is  no  leaf  ;  where  there  is  no  dew— no  leaf. 

7.  Look,  then,  to  the  branch  you  hold  in  your  hand.  That 
you  can  so  hold  it,  or  make  a  crown  of  it,  if  you  choose,  is 
the  first  thing  I  want  you  to  note  of  it ; — the  proportion  of 
size,  namely,  between  the  leaf  and  you.  Great  part  of  your 
life  and  character,  as  a  human  creature,  has  depended  on  that. 
Suppose  all  leaves  had  been  spacious,  like  some  palm  leaves ; 
solid,  like  cactus  stem  ;  or  that  trees  had  grown,  as  they  might 
of  course  just  as  easily  have  grown,  like  mushrooms,  all  one 
great  cluster  of  leaf  round  one  stalk.  I  do  not  say  that  they 
are  divided  into  small  leaves  only  for  your  delight,  or  your 
service,  as  if  you  were  the  monarch  of  everything — even  in 
this  atom  of  a  globe.  You  are  made  of  your  proper  size  ; 
and  the  leaves  of  theirs  :  for  reasons,  and  by  laws,  of  which 
neither  the  leaves  nor  you  know  anything.  Only  note  the 
harmony  between  both,  and  the  joy  we  may  have  in  this  di- 
vision and  mystery  of  the  frivolous  and  tremulous  petals, 
which  break  the  light  and  the  breeze, — compared  to  what, 
with  the  frivolous  and  the  tremulous  mind  which  is  in  us,  we 
could  have  had  out  of  domes,  or  penthouses,  or  walls  of  leaf. 

8.  Secondly  ;  think  awhile  of  its  dark  clear  green,  and  the 
good  of  it  to  you.  Scientifically,  you  know  green  in  leaves  is 
owing  to  '  chlorophyll/  or,  in  English,  to  '  green-leaf.'  It  may 
be  very  fine  to  know  that ;  but  my  advice  to  you,  on  the  whole, 
is  to  rest  content  wdth  the  general  fact  that  leaves  are  green 
when  they  do  not  grow  in  or  near  smoky  towns ;  and  not  by 
any  means  to  rest  content  with  the  fact  that  very  soon  there 
will  not  be  a  green  leaf  in  England,  but  only  greenish-black 
ones.  And  thereon  resolve  that  you  will  yourself  endeavour 
to  promote  the  growing  of  the  green  wood,  rather  than  of  the 
black. 

9.  Looking  at  the  back  of  your  laurel-leaves,  you  see  how 
the  central  rib  or  spine  of  each,  and  the  lateral  branchings, 
strengthen  and  carry  it.  I  find  much  confused  use,  in  botani- 
cal works,  of  the  words  Vein  and  Rib.  For,  indeed,  there  are 
veins  in  the  ribs  of  leaves,  as  marrow  in  bones  ;  and  the  pro- 


Plate  II. — Central  Type  of  Leaves.    Common  Bay  Laurel. 


THE  LEAF. 


35 


jecting  bars  often  gradually  depress  themselves  into  a  trans- 
parent net  of  rivers.  But  the  mechanical  force  of  the  framework 
in  carrying  the  leaf -tissue  is  the  point  first  to  be  noticed  ;  it  is 
that  which  admits,  regulates,  or  restrains  the  visible  motions 
of  the  leaf  ;  while  the  system  of  circulation  can  only  be  stud- 
ied through  the  microscope.  But  the  ribbed  leaf  bears  itself 
to  the  wind,  as  the  webbed  foot  of  a  bird  does  to  the  water, 
and  needs  the  same  kind,  though  not  the  same  strength,  of 
support ;  and  its  ribs  always  are  partly  therefore  constituted 
of  strong  woody  substance,  which  is  knit  out  of  the  tissue  ; 
and  you  can  extricate  this  skeleton  framework,  and  keep  it, 
after  the  leaf-tissue  is  dissolved.  So  I  shall  henceforward 
speak  simply  of  the  leaf  and  its  ribs, — only  specifying  the  ad- 
ditional veined  structure  on  necessary  occasions. 

10.  I  have  just  said  that  the  ribs — and  might  have  said, 
farther,  the  stalk  that  sustains  them — are  knit  out  of  the 
tissue  of  the  leaf.  But  what  is  the  leaf  tissue  itself  knit  out 
of  ?  One  would  think  that  was  nearly  the  first  thing  to  be 
discovered^  or  at  least  to  be  thought  of,  concerning  plants, — 
namely,  how  and  of  what  they  are  made.  We  say  they 
1  grow. '  But  you  know  that  they  can't  grow  out  of  nothing  ; 
— this  solid  wood  and  rich  tracery  must  be  made  out  of  some 
previously  existing  substance.  What  is  the  substance  ? — and 
how  is  it  woven  into  leaves, — twisted  into  wood  ? 

11.  Consider  how  fast  this  is  done,  in  spring.  You  walk 
in  February  over  a  slippery  field,  where,  through  hoar-frost 
and  mud,  you  perhaps  hardly  see  the  small  green  blades  of 
trampled  turf.  In  twelve  weeks  you  wade  through  the  same 
field  up  to  your  knees  in  fresh  grass  ;  and  in  a  week  or  two 
more,  you  mow  two  or  three  solid  haystacks  off  it.  In  winter 
you  walk  by  your  currant-bush,  or  your  vine.  They  are 
shrivelled  sticks — like  bits  of  black  tea  in  the  canister.  You 
pass  again  in  May,  and  the  currant-bush  looks  like  a  young 
sycamore  tree  ;  and  the  vine  is  a  bower  :  and  meanwhile  the 
forests,  all  over  this  side  of  the  round  world,  have  grown 
their  foot  or  two  in  height,  with  new  leaves — so  much 
deeper,  so  much  denser  than  they  were.  Where  has  it  all 
come  from  ?    Cut  off  the  fresh  shoots  from  a  single  branch  of 


36 


PROSERPINA. 


any  tree  in  May.  Weigh  them  ;  and  then  consider  that  so 
much  weight  has  been  added  to  every  such  living  branch, 
everywhere,  this  side  the  equator,  within  the  last  two  months. 
What  is  all  that  made  of  ? 

12.  Well,  this  much  the  botanists  really  know,  and  tell  us, 
■ — It  is  made  chiefly  of  the  breath  of  animals  ;  that  is  to  say, 
of  the  substance  which,  during  the  past  year,  animals  have 
breathed  into  the  air  ;  and  which,  if  they  went  on  breathing, 
and  their  breath  were  not  made  into  trees,  wrould  poison 
them,  or  rather  suffocate  them,  as  people  are  suffocated  in, 
uncleansed  pits,  and  dogs  in  the  Grotta  del  Cane.  So  that 
you  may  look  upon  the  grass  and  forests  of  the  earth  as  a 
kind  of  green  hoar-frost,  frozen  upon  it  from  our  breath,  as, 
on  the  window-panes,  the  white  arborescence  of  ice. 

13.  But  how  is  it  made  into  wood  ? 

The  substances  that  have  been  breathed  into  the  air  are 
charcoal,  with  oxygen  and  hydrogen, — or,  more  plainly,  char- 
coal and  water.  Some  necessary  earths, — in  smaller  quantity, 
but  absolutely  essential, — the  trees  get  from  the  ground ; 
but,  I  believe  all  the  charcoal  they  want,  and  most  of  the 
water,  from  the  air.  Now  the  question  is,  where  and  how  do 
they  take  it  in,  and  digest  it  into  wood  ? 

14.  You  know,  in  spring,  and  partly  through  all  the  year, 
except  in  frost,  a  liquid  called  '  sap '  circulates  in  trees,  of 
which  the  nature,  one  should  have  thought,  might  have  been 
ascertained  by  mankind  in  the  six  thousand  years  they  have 
been  cutting  wood.  Under  the  impression  always  that  it  had 
been  ascertained,  and  that  I  could  at  any  time  know  all  about 
it,  I  have  put  off  till  to-day,  19th  October,  1869,  when  I  am 
past  fifty,  the  knowing  anything  about  it  at  all.  But  I  wTill 
really  endeavour  now  to  ascertain  something,  and  take  to  my 
botanical  books,  accordingly,  in  due  order. 

(1)  Dresser's  "Budiments  of  Botany."  '  Sap  '  not  in  the 
index  ;  only  Samara,  and  Sarcocarp, — about  neither  of  which 
I  feel  the  smallest  curiosity.  (2)  Figuier's  "Histoire  des 
Plantes."*  'Seve,'  not  in  index;  only  Serpolet,  and  She- 
rardia  arvensis,  which  also  have  no  help  in  them  for  me. 
*  An  excellent  book,  nevertheless. 


THE  LEAF. 


37 


(3)  Balfour's  "  Manual  of  Botany."  <  Sap/— yes,  at  last.  "  Ar- 
ticle 257.  Course  of  fluids  in  exogenous  stems."  I  don't  care 
about  the  course  just  now  :  I  want  to  know  where  the  fluids 
come  from.  4 'If  a  plant  be  plunged  into  a  weak  solution  of 
acetate  of  lead," — I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  know  what  hap- 
pens. "From  the  minuteness  of  the  tissue,  it  is  not  easy  to 
determine  the  vessels  through  which  the  sap  moves."  Who 
said  it  was  ?  If  it  had  been  easy,  I  should  have  done  it  my- 
self. "  Changes  take  place  in  the  composition  of  the  sap  in 
its  upward  course."  I  dare  say  ;  but  I  don't  know  yet  what 
its  composition  is  before  it  begins  going  up.  "  The  Elabor- 
ated Sap  by  Mr.  Schultz  has  been  called  c  latex.' "  I  wish  Mr. 
Schultz  were  in  a  hogshead  of  it,  with  the  top  on.  "  On  ac- 
count of  these  movements  in  the  latex,  the  laticiferous  vessels 
have  been  denominated  cinenchymatous."  I  do  not  venture 
to  print  the  expressions  which  I  here  mentally  make  use  of. 

15.  Stay, — here,  at  last,  in  Article  264,  is  something  to  the 
purpose  :  "It  appears  then  that,  in  the  case  of  Exogenous 
plants,  the  fluid  matter  in  the  soil,  containing  different  sub- 
stances in  solution,  is  sucked  up  by  the  extremities  of  the 
roots."  Yes,  but  how  of  the  pine  trees  on  yonder  rock  ? — Is 
there  any  sap  in  the  rock,  or  water  either?  The  moisture 
must  be  seized  during  actual  rain  on  the  root,  or  stored  up 
from  the  snow  ;  stored  up,  any  way,  in  a  tranquil,  not  actively 
sappy,  state,  till  the  time  comes  for  its  change,  of  which  there 
is  no  account  here. 

16.  I  have  only  one  chance  left  now.  Lindley's  "Introduc- 
tion to  Botany."  'Sap,' — yes, — '  General  motion  of.'  II.  325. 
"  The  course  which  is  taken  by  the  sap,  after  entering  a 
plant,  is  the  first  subject  for  consideration."  My  dear  doctor, 
I  have  learned  nearly  whatever  I  know  of  plant  structure  from 
you,  and  am  grateful ;  and  that  it  is  little,  is  not  your  fault, 
but  mine.  But  this — let  me  say  it  with  all  sincere  respect — 
is  not  what  you  should  have  told  me  here.  You  know,  far 
better  than  I,  that  ■ sap  '  never  does  enter  a  plant  at  all ;  but 
only  salt,  or  earth  and  water,  and  that  the  roots  alone  could 
not  make  it ;  and  that,  therefore,  the  course  of  it  must  be,  in 
great  part,  the  result  or  process  of  the  actual  making.    But  I 


38 


PROSERPINA. 


will  read  now,  patiently  ;  for  I  know  you  will  tell  me  much 
that  is  worth  hearing,  though  not  perhaps  what  I  want. 

Yes  ;  now  that  I  have  read  Lindley's  statement  carefully,  I 
find  it  is  full  of  precious  things  ;  and  this  is  what,  with  think- 
ing over  it,  I  can  gather  for  you. 

17.  First,  towards  the  end  of  January, — as  the  light  en- 
larges, and  the  trees  revive  from  their  rest, — there  is  a  gen- 
eral liquefaction  of  the  blood  of  St.  Januarius  in  their  stems  ; 
and  I  suppose  there  is  really  a  great  deal  of  moisture  rapidly 
absorbed  from  the  earth  in  most  cases  ;  and  that  this  absorp- 
tion is  a  great  help  to  the  sun  in  drying  the  winter's  damp  out 
of  it  for  us  :  then,  with  that  strange  vital  power, — which  sci- 
entific people  are  usually  as  afraid  of  naming  as  common  peo- 
ple are  afraid  of  naming  -Death, — the  tree  gives  the  gathered 
earth  and  water  a  changed  existence  ;  and  to  this  new-born 
liquid  an  upward  motion  from  the  earth,  as  our  blood  ha3 
from  the  heart  ;  for  the  life  of  the  tree  is  out  of  the  earth  ; 
and  this  upward  motion  has  a  mechanical  power  in  pushing 
on  the  growth.  "  Forced  onward  by  the  current  of  sap, 
the  plumule  ascends,"  (Lindley,  p.  132,)  —  this  blood  of  the  tree 
having  to  supply,  exactly  as  our  own  blood  has,  not  only  the 
forming  powers  of  substance,  but  a  continual  evaporation, 
"  approximately  seventeen  times  more  than  that  of  the  human 
body,"  while  the  force  of  motion  in  the  sap  "  is  sometimes 
five  times  greater  than  that  which  impels  the  blood  in  the 
crural  artery  of  the  horse." 

18.  Hence  generally,  1  think  we  may  conclude  thus  much, 
— that  at  every  pore  of  its  surface,  under  ground  and  above, 
the  plant  in  the  spring  absorbs  moisture,  which  instantly  dis- 
perses itself  through  its  whole  system  "  by  means  of  some 
permeable  quality  of  the  membranes  of  the  cellular  tissue  in- 
visible to  oar  eyes  even  by  the  most  powerful  glasses  "  (p. 
326) ;  that  in  this  way  subjected  to  the  vital  power  of  the  tree, 
it  becomes  sap,  properly  so  called,  which  passes  downwards 
through  this  cellular  tissue,  slowly  and  secretly  ;  and  then  up- 
wards, through  the  great  vessels  of  the  tree,  violently,  stretch- 
ing out  the  supple  twigs  of  it  as  you  see  a  flaccid  waterpipe 
swell  and  move  when  the  cock  is  turned  to  fill  it.    And  the 


THE  LEAF. 


39 


tree  becomes  literally  a  fountain,  of  which  the  springing 
streamlets  are  clothed  with  new-woven  garments  of  green  tis- 
sue, and  of  which  the  silver  spray  stays  in  the  sky, — a  spray, 
now,  of  leaves. 

19.  That  is  the  gist  of  the  matter  ;  and  a  very  wonderful 
gist  it  is,  to  my  mind.  The  secret  and  subtle  descent — the 
violent  and  exulting  resilience  of  the  tree's  blood, — what 
guides  it  ? — what  compels  ?  The  creature  has  no  heart  to 
beat  like  ours  ;  one  cannot  take  refuge  from  the  mystery  in  a 
'muscular  contraction.'  Fountain  without  supply — playing 
by  its  own  force,  for  ever  rising  and  falling  all  through  the 
days  of  Spring,  spending  itself  at  last  in  gathered  clouds  of 
leaves,  and  iris  of  blossom. 

Very  wonderful ;  and  it  seems,  for  the  present,  that  we 
know  nothing  whatever  about  its  causes  ;  nay,  the  strangeness 
of  the  reversed  arterial  and  vein  motion,  without  a  heart,  does 
not  not  seem  to  strike  anybody.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may 
interest  you,  as  I  observe  it  does  the  botanists,  to  know  that 
the  cellular  tissue  through  which  the  motion  is  effected  is 
called  Parenchym,  and  the  woody  tissue,  Bothrenchym  ;  and 
that  Parenchym  is  divided,  by  a  system  of  nomenclature  which 
"  has  some  advantages  over  that  more  commonly  in  use,"  * 
into  merenchyma,  conenchyma,  ovenchyma,  atractenchyma, 
cylindrenchyma,  colpenchyma,  cladenchyma,  and  prismen- 
chyma. 

20.  Take  your  laurel  branch  into  your  hand  again.  There 
are,  as  you  must  well  know,  innumerable  shapes  and  orders 
of  leaves  ; — there  are  some  like  claws  ;  some  like  fingers,  and 
some  like  feet ;  there  are  endlessly  cleft  ones,  and  endlessly 
clustered  ones,  and  inscrutable  divisions  within  divisions  of 
the  fretted  verdure  ;  and  wrinkles,  and  ripples,  and  stitch- 
ings,  and  hemmings,  and  pinchings,  and  gatherings,  and 
crumplings,  and  clippings,  and  what  not.  But  there  is  noth- 
ing so  constantly  noble  as  the  pure  leaf  of  the  laurel,  bay, 
orange,  and  olive ;  numerable,  sequent,  perfect  in  setting, 

*  Lindley,  'Introduction  to  Botany,'  vol.  i. ,  p.  21.  The  terms 
u  wholly  obsolete "  says  an  authoritative  botanic  friend.  Thank 
Heaven ! 


40 


PROSERPINA. 


divinely  simple  and  serene.  I  shall  call  these  noble  leaves 
'  Apolline '  leaves.  They  characterize  many  orders  of  plants, 
great  arid  small, — from  the  magnolia  to  the  myrtle,  and  ex- 
quisite '  myrtille '  of  the  hills,  (bilberry)  ;  but  wherever  you 
find  them,  strong,  lustrous,  dark  green,  simply  formed,  richly 
scented  or  stored, — you  have  nearly  always  kindly  and  lovely 
vegetation,  in  healthy  ground  and  air. 

21.  The  gradual  diminution  in  rank  beneath  the  Apolline 
leaf,  takes  place  in  others  by  the  loss  of  one  or  more  of  the 
qualities  above  named.  The  Apolline  leaf,  I  said,  is  strong, 
lustrous,  full  in  its  green,  rich  in  substance,  simple  in  form. 
The  inferior  leaves  are  those  which  have  lost  strength,  and 
become  thin,  like  paper ;  which  have  lost  lustre,  and  become 
dead  by  roughness  of  surface,  like  the  nettle, — (an  Apolline 
leaf  may  become  dead  by  bloom,  like  the  olive,  yet  not  lose 
beauty)  ;  which  have  lost  colour  and  become  feeble  in  green, 
as  in  the  poplar,  or  crudely  bright,  like  rice  ;  which  have  lost 
substance  and  softness,  and  have  nothing  to  give  in  scent  or 
nourishment  ;  or  become  flinty  or  spiny  ;  finally,  which  have 
lost  simplicity,  and  become  cloven  or  jagged.  Many  of  these 
losses  are  partly  atoned  for  by  gain  of  some  peculiar  loveliness. 
Grass  and  moss,  and  parsley  and  fern,  have  each  their  own 
delightfulness  ;  yet  they  are  all  of  inferior  power  and  honour, 
compared  to  the  Apolline  leaves. 

22.  You  see,  however,  that  though  your  laurel  leaf  has  a 
central  stem,  and  traces  of  ribs  branching  from  it,  in  a  verte- 
brated  manner,  they  are  so  faint  that  we  cannot  take  it  for  a 
type  of  vertebrate  structure.  But  the  two  figures  of  elm  and 
alisma  leaf,  given  in  Modern  Painters  (vol.  iii.),  and  now  here 
repeated,  Fig.  3,  will  clearly  enough  show  the  opposition  be- 
tween this  vertebrate  form,  branching  again  usually  at  the 
edges,  a,  and  the  softly  opening  lines  diffused  at  the  stem,  and 
gathered  at  the  point  of  the  leaf,  b,  which,  as  you  almost  with- 
out doubt  know  already,  are  characteristic  of  a  vast  group  of 
plants,  including  especially  all  the  lilies,  grasses,  and  palms, 
which  for  the  most  part  are  the  signs  of  local  or  temporary 
moisture  in  hot  countries  ; — local,  as  of  fountains  and  streams  ; 
temporary,  as  of  rain  or  inundation, 


THE  LEAF. 


41 


But  temporary,  still  more  definitely  in  the  clay,  than  in  the 
year.  When  you  go  out,  delighted,  into  the  dew  of  the  morn- 
ing, have  you  ever  considered  why  it  is  so  rich  upon  the  grass  ; 
— why  it  is  not  upon  the  trees  ?  It  is  partly  on  the  trees,  but 
yet  your  memory  of  it  will  be  always  chiefly  of  its  gleam  upon 
the  lawn.  On  many  trees  you  will  find  there  is  none  at  all, 
I  cannot  follow  out  here  the  many  inquiries  connected  with 
this  subject,  but,  broadly,  remember  the  branched  trees  are 
fed  chiefly  by  rain, — the  unbranched  ones  by  dew,  visible  or 
invisible  ;  that  is  to  say,  at  all  events  by  moisture  which  they 


can  gather  for  themselves  out  of  the  air  ;  or  else  by  streams 
and  springs.  Hence  the  division  of  the  verse  of  the  song  of 
Moses  :  "My  doctrine  shall  drop  as  the  rain  ;  my  speech  shall 
distil  as  the  dew  :  as  the  small  rain  upon  the  tender  herb,  and 
as  the  showers  upon  the  grass." 

23.  Next,  examining  the  direction  of  the  veins  in  the  leaf  of 
the  alisma,  6,  Fig.  3,  you  see  they  all  open  widely,  as  soon  as 
they  can,  towards  the  thick  part  of  the  leaf  ;  and  then  taper, 
apparently  with  reluctance,  pushing  each  other  outwards,  to 
the  point.  If  the  leaf  were  a  lake  of  the  same  shape,  and  its 
stem  the  entering  river,  the  lines  of  the  currents  passing  through 


b 


Fig.  3. 


42 


PROSERPINA. 


it  would,  I  believe,  be  nearly  the  same  as  that  of  the  veins  in 
the  aquatic  leaf.  I  have  not  examined  the  fluid  law  accurately, 
and  I  do  not  suppose  there  is  more  real  correspondence  than 
may  be  caused  by  the  leaf's  expanding  in  every  permitted  di- 
rection, as  the  water  would,  with  all  the  speed  it  can  ;  but  the 
resemblance  is  so  close  as  to  enable  you  to  fasten  the  relation 
of  the  unbranched  leaves  to  streams  more  distinctly  in  your 
mind, — just  as  the  toss  of  the  palm  leaves  from  their  stem 
may,  I  think,  in  their  likeness  to  the  springing  of  a  fountain, 
remind  you  of  their  relation  to  the  desert,  and  their  necessity, 
therein,  to  life  of  man  and  beast. 

24.  And  thus,  associating  these  grass  and  lily  leaves  always 
with  fountains,  or  with  dew,  I  think  we  may  get  a  pretty  gen- 
eral name  for  them  also.  You  know  that  Cora,  our  Madonna 
of  the  flowers,  was  lost  in  Sicilian  Fields  :  you  know,  also, 
that  the  fairest  of  Greek  fountains,  lost  in  Greece,  was  thought 
to  rise  in  a  Sicilian  islet ;  and  that  the  real  springing  of  the 
noble  fountain  in  that  rock  was  one  of  the  causes  which  deter- 
mined the  position  of  the  greatest  Greek  city  of  Sicily.  So  I 
think,  as  we  call  the  fairest  branched  leaves  '  Apolline,'  we  will 
call  the  fairest  flowing  ones  'Arethusan.'  But  remember  that 
the  Apolline  leaf  represents  only  the  central  type  of  land  leaves, 
and  is,  within  certain  limits,  of  a  fixed  form  ;  while  the  beau- 
tiful Arethusan  leaves,  alike  in  flowing  of  their  lines,  change 
their  forms  indefinitely, — some  shaped  like  round  pools,  and 
some  like  winding  currents,  and  many  like  arrows,  and  many 
like  hearts,  and  otherwise  varied  and  variable,  as  leaves  ought 
to  be, — that  rise  out  of  the  waters,  and  float  amidst  the  paus- 
ing of  their  foam. 

25.  Brantwood,  Easier  Day,  1875. — I  don't  like  to  spoil  my 
pretty  sentence,  above  ;  but  on  reading  it  over,  I  suspect  I 
wrote  it  confusing  the  water-lily  leaf,  and  other  floating  ones 
of  the  same  kind,  with  the  Arethusan  forms.  But  the  water- 
lily  and  water-ranunculus  leaves,  and  such  others,  are  to  the 
orders  of  earth-loving  leaves  what  ducks  and  swans  are  to 
birds  ;  (the  swan  is  the  water-lily  of  birds  ; )  they  are  swim- 
ming leaves ;  not  properly  watery  creatures,  or  able  to  live 
under  water  like  fish,  (unless  when  dormant),  but  just  like 


TEE  LEAF, 


43 


birds  that  pass  their  lives  on  the  surface  of  the  waves — though 
they  must  breathe  in  the  air. 

And  these  natant  leaves,  as  they  lie  on  the  water  surface, 
do  not  want  strong  ribs  to  carry  them,*  but  have  very  delicate 
ones  beautifully  branching  into  the  orbed  space,  to  keep  the 
tissue  nice  and  flat ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  leaves  that 
really  have  to  grow  under  water,  sacrifice  their  tissue,  and 
keep  only  their  ribs,  like  coral  animals  ;  ('  Eanunculus  hetero- 
phyllus,'  '  other-leaved  Frog-flower/ and  its  like,)  just  as,  if 
you  keep  your  own  hands  too  long  in  water,  they  shrivel  at 
the  finger-ends. 

26.  So  that  you  must  not  attach  any  great  botanical  impor- 
tance to  the  characters  of  contrasted  aspects  in  leaves,  which  I 
wish  you  to  express  by  the  words  '  Apolline '  and  '  Arethusan ' ; 
but  their  mythic  importance  is  very  great,  and  your  careful 
observance  of  it  will  help  you  completely  to  understand  the 
beautiful  Greek  fable  of  Apollo  and  Daphne.  There  are  in- 
deed several  Daphnes,  and  the  first  root  of  the  name  is  far 
away  in  another  field  of  thought  altogether,  connected  with 
the  Gods  of  Light.  But  etymology,  the  best  of  servants,  is  an 
unreasonable  master  ;  and  Professor  Max  Miiller  trusts  his 
deep-reaching  knowledge  of  the  first  ideas  connected  with  the 
names  of  Athena  and  Daphne,  too  implicitly,  when  he  sup- 
poses this  idea  to  be  retained  in  central  Greek  theology. 

■  Athena  •  originally  meant  only  the  dawn,  among  nations  who 
knew  nothing  of  a  Sacred  Spirit.  But  the  Athena  who  catches 
Achilles  by  the  hair,  and  urges  the  spear  of  Diomed,  has  not, 
in  the  mind  of  Homer,  the  slightest  remaining  connection  with 
the  mere  beauty  of  daybreak.  Daphne  chased  by  Apollo,  may 
perhaps — though  I  doubt  even  this  much  of  consistence  in  the 
earlier  myth — have  meant  the  Dawn  pursued  by  the  Sun. 
But  there  is  no  trace  whatever  of  this  first  idea  left  in  the 
fable  of  Arcadia  and  Thessaly. 

27.  The  central  Greek  Daphne  is  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  great  river  gods  of  Arcadia  ;  her  mother  is  the  Earth. 

*  M  You  should  see  the  girders  on  under-side  of  the  Victoria  Water- 
lily,  the  most  wonderful  bit  of  engineering,  of  the  kind,  I  know  of."-> 
('  Botanical  friend.') 


44 


PROSERPINA. 


Now  Arcadia  is  the  Oberlancl  of  Greece  ;  and  the  crests  of 
Cyllene,  Prynianthus,  and  Msenalus*  surround  it,  like  the 
Swiss  forest  cantons,  with  walls  of  rock,  and  shadows  of  pine. 
And  it  divides  itself,  like  the  Oberland,  into  three  regions : 
first,  the  region  of  rock  and  snow,  sacred  to  Mercury  and 
Apollo,  in  which  Mercury's  birth  on  Cyllene,  his  construction 
of  the  lyre,  and  his  stealing  the  oxen  of  Apollo,  are  all  expres- 
sions of  the  enchantments  of  cloud  and  sound,  mingling  with 
the  sunshine,  on  the  cliffs  of  Cyllene. 

"  While  the  mists 
Flying,  and  rainy  vapours,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  his  instrument." 

Then  came  the  pine  region,  sacred  especially  to  Pan  and 
Maenalus  the  son  of  Lycaon  and  brother  of  Callisto  ;  and 
you  had  better  remember  this  relationship  carefully,  for  the 
sake  of  the  meaning  of  the  constellations  of  Ursa  Major  and 
the  Mons  Maenalius,  and  of  their  wolf  and  bear  traditions ; 
(compare  also  the  strong  impression  on  the  Greek  mind  of 
the  wild  leanness,  nourished  by  snow,  of  the  Boeotian  Cith- 
aeron, — "  Oh,  thou  lake-hollow,  full  of  divine  leaves,  and  of 
wild  creatures,  nurse  of  the  snow,  darling  of  Diana, "  (Phce- 
nissae,  801).  How  wild  the  climate  of  this  pine  region  is, 
you  may  judge  from  the  pieces  in  the  note  below  f  out  of 

*  Roughly,  Cyllene  7,700  feet  high  ;  Erymanthus  7,000;  Mamalus 
6,000. 

f  March  3rd — We  now  ascend  the  roots  of  the  mountain  called  Kas- 
tania,  and  begin  to  pass  between  it  and  the  mountain  of  Alonistena, 
which  is  on  our  right.  The  latter  is  much  higher  than  Kastania,  and, 
like  the  other  peaked  summits  of  the  MaBiialian  range,  is  covered  with 
firs,  and  deeply  at  present  with  snow.  The  snow  lies  also  in  our  pass. 
At  a  fountain  in  the  road,  the  small  village  of  Bazeniko  is  half  a  mile 
on  the  right,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  Maenalian  range,  and  now  cov- 
ered with  snow. 

Saeta  is  the  most  lofty  of  the  range  of  mountains,  which  are  in  face 
of  Levidhi,  to  the  northward  and  eastward  ;  they  are  all  a  part  of  the 
chain  which  extends  from  Mount  Khelmos,  and  connects  that  great  sum- 
mit with  Artemisium,  Parthenium,  and  Parnon.    Mount  Saeta  is  cov- 


THE  LEAF. 


45 


Colonel  Leake's  diary  in  crossing  the  Msenalian  range  in  spring. 
And  then,  lastly,  you  have  the  laurel  and  vine  region,  full  of 
sweetness  and  Elysian  beauty. 

28.  Now  as  Mercury  is  the  ruling  power  of  the  hill  en- 
chantment, so  Daphne  of  the  leafy  peace.  She  is,  in  her 
first  life,  the  daughter  of  the  mountain  river,  the  mist  of  it 
filling  the  valley  ;  the  Sun,  pursuing,  and  effacing  it,  from 
dell  to  dell,  is,  literally,  Apollo  pursuing  Daphne,  and  adverse 
to  her ;  (not,  as  in  the  earlier  tradition,  the  Sun  pursuing 
only  his  own  light).  Daphne,  thus  hunted,  cries  to  her  mother, 
the  Earth,  which  opens,  and  receives  her,  causing  the  laurel 
to  spring  up  in  her  stead.  That  is  to  say,  wherever  the  rocks 
protect  the  mist  from  the  sunbeam,  and  suffer  it  to  Water  the 
earth,  there  the  laurel  and  other  richest  vegetation  fill  the 
hollows,  giving  a  better  glory  to  the  sun  itself.  For  sunshine, 
on  the  torrent  spray,  on  the  grass  of  its  valley,  and  entangled 
among  the  laurel  stems,  or  glancing  from  their  leaves,  be- 
came a  thousandfold  lovelier  and  more  sacred  than  the  same 
sunbeams,  burning  on  the  leafless  mountain -side. 

And  farther,  the  leaf,  in  its  connection  with  the  river,  is 
typically  expressive,  not,  as  the  flower  was,  of  human  fading 
and  passing  away,  but  of  the  perpetual  flow  and  renewal  of 
human  mind  and  thought,  rising  u  like  the  rivers  that  run 
among  the  hills  "  ;  therefore  it  was  that  the  youth  of  Greece 

ered  with  firs.  The  mountain  between  the  plain  of  Levfdhi  and  Alo- 
nfstena,  or,  to  speak  by  the  ancient  nomenclature,  that  part  of  the  Mob- 
nalian  range  which  separates  the  Orchomenia  from  the  valleys  of  Helisson 
and  Methydrium,  is  clothed  also  with  large  forests  of  the  same  trees  ; 
the  road  across  this  ridge  from  Levidhi  to  Alonlstena  is  now  impractica- 
ble on  account  of  the  snow. 

I  am  detained  all  day  at  Levfdhi  by  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  which  before 
the  evening  has  covered  the  ground  to  halC  afoot  in  depth,  although  the 
village  is  not  much  elevated  above  the  plain,  nor  in  a  more  lofty  situa- 
tion than  Tripolitza. 

March  Mil. — Yesterday  afternoon  and  during  the  night  the  snow  fell 
in  such  quantities  as  to  cover  all  the  plains  and  adjacent  mountains; 
and  the  country  exhibited  this  morning  as  fine  a  snow-scene  as  Norway 
could  supply.  As  the  day  advanced  and  the  sun  appeared,  the  snow 
melted  rapidly,  but  the  sky  was  soon  overcast  again,  and  the  snow 
began  to  fall. 


46 


PROSERPINA. 


sacrificed  their  hair — the  sign  of  their  continually  renewed 
strength, — to  the  rivers,  and  to  Apollo.  Therefore,  to  com- 
memorate Apollo's  own  chief  victory  over  death — over  Python, 
the  corrupter, — a  laurel  branch  was  gathered  every  ninth  year 
in  the  vale  of  Tempe  ;  and  the  laurel  leaf  became  the  reward 
or  crown  of  all  beneficent  and  enduring  work  of  man — work 
of  inspiration,  born  of  the  strength  of  the  earth,  and  of  the 
dew  of  heaven,  and  which  can  never  pass  away. 

29.  You  may  doubt  at  first,  even  because  of  its  grace,  this 
meaning  in  the  fable  of  Apollo  and  Daphne  ;  you  will  not 
doubt  it,  however,  when  you  trace  it  back  to  its  first  eastern 
origin.  "When  we  speak  carelessly  of  the  traditions  respect- 
ing the  Garden  of  Eden,  (or  in  Hebrew,  remember,  Garden 
of  Delight,)  we  are  apt  to  confuse  Milton's  descriptions  with 
those  in  the  book  of  Genesis.  Milton  fills  his  Paradise  with 
flowers  ;  but  no  flowers  are  spoken  of  in  Genesis.  We  may 
indeed  conclude  that  in  speaking  of  every  herb  of  the  field, 
flowers  are  included.  But  they  are  not  named.  The  things 
that  are  named  in  the  Garden  of  Delight  are  trees  only. 

The  words  are,  "  every  tree  that  was  pleasant  to  the  sight 
and  good  for  food  ;  "  and  as  if  to  mark  the  idea  more  strongly 
for  us  in  the  Septuagint,  even  the  ordinary  Greek  word  for 
tree  is  not  used,  but  the  word  £v\ov, — literally,  every  '  wood/ 
every  piece  of  timber  that  was  pleasant  or  good.  They  are  in- 
deed the  "  vivi  travi," — living  rafters  of  Dante's  Apennine. 

Do  you  remember  how  those  trees  were  said  to  be  watered  ? 
Not  by  the  four  rivers  only.  The  rivers  could  not  supply  the 
place  of  rain.  No  rivers  do  ;  for  in  truth  they  are  the  refuse 
of  rain.  No  storm-clouds  were  there,  nor  hidings  of  the  blue 
by  darkening  veil ;  but  there  wTent  up  a  mist  from  the  earth, 
and  watered  the  face  of  the  ground, — or,  as  in  Septuagint  and 
Vulgate,  "  There  went  forth  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  and 
gave  the  earth  to  drink." 

30.  And  now,  lastly,  we  continually  think  of  that  Garden  of 
Delight,  as  if  it  existed,  or  could  exist,  no  longer  ;  wTholly 
forgetting  that  it  is  spoken  of  in  Scripture  as  perpetually 
existent  ;  and  some  of  its  fairest  trees  as  existent  also,  or  only 
recently  destroyed.    When  Ezekiel  is  describing  to  Pharaoh 


THE  LEAF, 


4? 


the  greatness  of  the  Assyrians,  do  you  remember  what  image 
he  gives  of  them  ?  "  Behold,  the  Assyrian  was  a  cedar  in 
Lebanon,  with  fair  branches  ;  and  his  top  was  among  the 
thick  boughs  ;  the  waters  nourished  him,  and  the  deep  brought 
him  up,  with  her  rivers  running  round  about  his  plants. 
Under  his  branches  did  all  the  beasts  of  the  field  bring  forth 
their  young  ;  and  under  his  shadow  dwelt  all  great  nations." 

31.  Now  hear  what  follows.  "The  cedars  in  the  Garden  of 
God  could  not  hide  him.  The  fir  trees  were  not  like  his 
boughs,  and  the  chestnut  trees  were  not  like  his  branches  ; 
nor  any  tree  in  the  Garden  of  God  was  like  unto  him  in 
beauty." 

So  that  you  see,  whenever  a  nation  rises  into  consistent, 
vital,  and,  through  many  generations,  enduring  power,  there 
is  sfcill  the  Garden  of  God  ;  still  it  is  the  water  of  life  which 
feeds  the  roots  of  it ;  and  still  the  succession  of  its  people  is 
imaged  by  the  perennial  leafage  of  trees  of  Paradise.  Could 
this  be  said  of  Assyria,  and  shall  it  not  be  said  of  England  ? 
How  much  more,  of  lives  such  as  ours  should  be, — just,  labo- 
rious, united  in  a'm,  beneficent  in  fulfilment,  may  the  image 
be  used  of  the  leaves  of  the  trees  of  Eden  !  Other  symbols 
have  been  given  often  to  show  the  evanescence  and  slightness 
of  our  lives — the  foam  upon  the  water,  the  grass  on  the  house- 
top, the  vapour  that  vanishes  away  ;  yet  none  of  these  are 
images  of  true  human  life.  That  life,  when  it  is  real,  is  not 
evanescent  ;  is  not  slight ;  does  not  vanish  away.  Every  noble 
life  leaves  the  fibre  of  it  interwoven  for  ever  in  the  work  of 
the  world  ;  by  so  much,  evermore,  the  strength  of  the  human 
race  has  gained  ;  more  stubborn  in  the  root,  higher  towards 
heaven  in  the  branch  ;  and,  "  as  a  teil  tree,  and  as  an  oak, — 
whose  substance  is  in  them  when  they  cast  their  leaves, — so 
the  holy  seed  is  in  the  midst  thereof." 

32.  Only  remember  on  what  conditions.  In  the  great 
Psalm  of  life,  we  are  told  that  everything  that  a  man  doeth 
shall  prosper,  so  only  that  he  delight  in  the  law  of  his  God, 
that  he  hath  not  walked  in  the  counsel  of  the  wicked,  nor  sat 
in  the  seat  of  the  scornful.  Is  it  among  these  leaves  of  the 
perpetual  Spring, — helpful  leaves  for  the  healing  of  the  na- 


48 


PROSERPINA. 


tions,— that  we  mean  to  have  our  part  and  place,  or  rathet 
among  the  "  brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag,  the  forest 
brook  along  "  ?  For  other  leaves  there  are,  and  other  streams 
that  water  them, — not  water  of  life,  but  water  of  Acheron, 
Autumnal  leaves  there  are  that  strew  the  brooks,  in  Vallom- 
brosa.  Remember  you  how  the  name  of  the  place  was  changed  : 
"  Once  called  'Sweet  water'  (Aqua  bella),  now,  the  Shadowy 
Vale."  Portion  in  one  or  other  name  we  must  choose,  all  of 
us,  with  the  living  olive,  by  the  living  fountains  of  waters,  or 
with  the  wild  fig  trees,  whose  leafage  of  human  soul  is  strewed 
along  the  brooks  of  death,  in  the  eternal  Vallombrosa, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  FLOWER. 

Rome,  Whit  Monday,  1874. 

1.  On  the  quiet  road  leading  from  under  the  Palatine  to  the 
little  church  of  St.  Nereo  and  Achilleo,  I  met,  yesterday  morn- 
ing, group  after  group  of  happy  peasants  heaped  in  pyramids 
on  their  triumphal  carts,  in  Whit-Sunday  dress,  stout  and 
clean,  and  gay  in  colour  ;  and  the  women  all  with  bright  arti- 
ficial roses  in  their  hair,  set  with  true  natural  taste,  and  well 
becoming  them.  This  power  of  arranging  wreath  or  crown 
of  flowers  for  the  head,  remains  to  the  people  from  classic 
times.  And  the  thing  that  struck  me  most  in  the  look  of  it 
wras  not  so  much  the  cheerfulness,  as  the  dignity  ; — in  a  true 
sense,  the  becomingness  and  decorousness  of  the  ornament. 
Among  the  ruins  of  the  dead  city,  and  the  worse  desolation 
of  the  work  of  its  modern  rebuilders,  here  was  one  element 
at  least  of  honour,  and  order  ; — and,  in  these,  of  delight. 

And  these  are  the  real  significances  of  the  flower  itself.  It 
is  the  utmost  purification  of  the  plant,  and  the  utmost  disci- 
pline. Where  its  tissue  is  blanched  fairest,  dyed  purest,  set  in 
strictest  rank,  appointed  to  most  chosen  office,  there — and 
created  by  the  fact  of  this  purity  and  function — is  the  flower. 

2.  But  created,  observe,  by  the  purity  and  order,  more 
than  by  the  function.  The  flower  exists  for  its  own  sake — not 


THE  FLOWER. 


49 


for  the  fruit's  sake.  The  production  of  the  fruit  is  an  added 
honour  to  it — is  a  granted  consolation  to  us  for  its  death. 
But  the  flower  is  the  end  of  the  seed, — not  the  seed  of  the 
flower.  You  are  fond  of  cherries,  perhaps  ;  and  think  that 
the  use  of  cherry  blossom  is  to  produce  cherries.  Not  at  all. 
The  use  of  cherries  is  to  produce  cherry  blossoms  ;  just  as  the 
use  of  bulbs  is  to  produce  hyacinths, — not  of  hyacinths  to 
produce  bulbs.  Nay,  that  the  flower  can  multiply  by  bulb, 
or  root,  or  slip,  as  well  as  by  seed,  may  show  you  at  once 
how  immaterial  the  seed-forming  function  is  to  the  flower's 
existence.  A  flower  is  to  the  vegetable  substance  what  a 
crystal  is  to  the  mineral.  "Dust  of  sapphire,"  writes  my 
friend  Dr.  John  Brown  to  me,  of  the  wood  hyacinths  of  Scot- 
land in  the  spring.  Yes,  that  is  so,— each  bud  more  beauti- 
ful, itself,  than  perfectest  jewel— this,  indeed,  jewel  "of 
purest  ray  serene  ; "  but,  observe  you,  the  glory  is  in  the 
purity,  the  serenit}7,  the  radiance, — not  in  the  mere  continu- 
ance of  the  creature. 

3.  It  is  because  of  its  beauty  that  its  continuance  is  worth 
Heaven's  while.  The  glory  of  it  is  in  being, — not  in  beget- 
ting ;  and  in  the  spirit  and  substance, — not  the  change.  For 
the  earth  also  has  its  flesh  and  spirit.  Every  clay  of  spring  is 
the  earth's  Whit  Sunday — Fire  Sunday.  The  falling  fire  of  the 
rainbow,  with  the  order  of  its  zones,  and  the  gladness  of  its 
covenant, — you  may  eat  of  it,  like  Esdras  ;  but  you  feed  upon 
it  only  that  you  may  see  it.  Do  you  think  that  flowers  were 
born  to  nourish  the  blind  ? 

Fasten  well  in  your  mind,  then,  the  conception  of  order, 
and  purity,  as  the  essence  of  the  flower's  being,  no  less  than 
of  the  crystal's.  A  ruby  is  not  made  bright  to  scatter  round 
it  child-rubies  ;  nor  a  flower,  but  in  collateral  and  added 
honour,  to  give  birth  to  other  flowers. 

Two  main  facts,  then,  you  have  to  study  in  every  flower : 
the  symmetry  or  order  of  it,  and  the  perfection  of  its  sub- 
stance ;  first,  the  manner  in  which  the  leaves  are  placed  for 
beauty  of  form  ;  then  the  spinning  and  weaving  and  blanch- 
ing of  their  tissue,  for  the  reception  of  purest  colour,  or  re- 
fining to  richest  surface. 
Vol.  1.-4 


50 


PROSERPINA. 


4.  First,  the  order :  the  proportion,  and  answering  to  each 
other,  of  the  parts  ;  for  the  study  of  which  it  becomes  neces- 
sary to  know  what  its  parts  are ;  and  that  a  flower  consists 
essentially  of — Well,  I  really  don't  know  what  it  consists  es- 
sentially of.  For  some  flowers  have  bracts,  and  stalks,  and 
tor  uses,  and  calices,  and  corollas,  and  discs,  and  stamens,  and 
pistils,  and  ever  so  many  odds  and  ends  of  things  besides,  of 
no  use  at  all,  seemingly  ;  and  others  have  no  bracts,  and  no 
stalks,  and  no  tor  uses,  and  no  calices,  and  no  corollas,  and 
nothing  recognizable  for  stamens  or  pistils, — only,  when  they 
come  to  be  reduced  to  this  kind  of  poverty,  one  doesn't  call 
them  flowers  ;  they  get  together  in  knots,  and  one  calls  them 
catkins,  or  the  like,  or  forgets  their  existence  altogether  ; — I 
haven't  the  least  idea,  for  instance,  myself,  what  an  oak  blos- 
som is  like  ;  only  I  know  its  bracts  get  together  and  make  a 
cup  of  themselves  afterwards,  which  the  Italians  call,  as  they 
do  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  '  cupola ' ;  and  that  is  a  great  pity, 
for  their  own  sake  as  well  as  the  world's,  that  they  were  not 
content  with  their  ilex  cupolas,  which  were  made  to  hold 
something,  but  took  to  building  these  big  ones  upside-down, 
which  hold  nothing — less  than  nothing, — large  extinguishers 
of  the  flame  of  Catholic  religion.  And  for  farther  embarrass- 
ment, a  flower  not  only  is  without  essential  consistence  of  a 
given  number  of  parts,  but  it  rarely  consists,  alone,  of  itself. 
One  talks  of  a  hyacinth  as  of  a  flower  ;  but  a  hyacinth  is  any 
number  of  flowers.  One  does  not  talk  of  6  a  heather  '  ;  when 
one  says  'heath,'  one  means  the  whole  plant,  not  the  blossom, 
— because  heath-bells,  though  they  grow  together  for  com- 
pany's sake,  do  so  in  a  voluntary  sort  of  way,  and  are  not  fixed 
in  their  places  ;  and  yet,  they  depend  on  each  other  for  effect, 
as  much  as  a  bunch  of  grapes. 

5.  And  this  grouping  of  flowers,  more  or  less  waywardly, 
is  that  most  subtle  part  of  their  order,  and  the  most  difficult 
to  represent.  Take  the  cluster  of  bog-heather  bells,  for  in- 
stance, Line- study  1.  You  might  think  at  first  there  were  no 
lines  in  it  worth  study  ;  but  look  at  it  more  carefully.  There 
are  twelve  bells  in  the  cluster.  There  may  be  fewer,  or  more  ; 
but  the  bog-heath  is  apt  to  run  into  something  near  that 


THE  FLOWER. 


51 


number.  They  all  grow  together  as  close  as  they  can,  and  on 
one  side  of  the  supporting  branch  only.  The  natural  effect 
would  be  to  bend  the  branch  down  ;  but  the  branch  won't 
have  that,  and  so  leans  back  to  carry  them.  Now  you  see  the 
use  of  drawing  the  profile  in  the  middle  figure  :  it  shows  you 
the  exactly  balanced  setting  of  the  group, — not  drooping,  nor 
erect ;  but  with  a  disposition  to  droop,  tossed  up  by  the 
leaning  back  of  the  stem.  Then,  growing  as  near  as  they  can 
to  each  other,  those  in  the  middle  get  squeezed.  Here  is  an- 
other quite  special  character.  Some  flowers  don't  like  being 
squeezed  at  all  (fancy  a  squeezed  convolvulus  !)  ;  but  these 
heather  bells  like  it,  and  look  all  the  prettier  for  it, — not  the 
squeezed  ones  exactly,  by  themselves,  but  the  cluster  alto- 
gether, by  their  patience. 

Then  also  the  outside  ones  get  pushed  into  a  sort  of  star- 
shape,  and  in  front  show  the  colour  of  all  their  sides,  and  at 
the  back  the  rich  green  cluster  of  sharp  leaves  that  hold  them  ; 
all  this  order  being  as  essential  to  the  plant  as  any  of  the 
more  formal  structures  of  the  bell  itself. 

6.  But  the  bog-heath  has  usually  only  one  cluster  of  flowers 
to  arrange  on  each  branch.  Take  a  spray  of  ling  (Frontis- 
piece), and  you  will  find  that  the  richest  piece  of  Gothic  spire- 
sculpture  would  be  dull  and  graceless  beside  the  grouping  of 
the  floral  masses  in  their  various  life.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
give  the  accuracy  of  attention  necessary  to  see  their  beauty 
without  drawing  them  ;  and  still  more  difficult  to  draw  them 
in  any  approximation  to  the  truth  before  they  change.  This 
is  indeed  the  fatallest  obstacle  to  all  good  botanical  work. 
Flowers,  or  leaves, — and  especially  the  last, — can  only  be 
rightly  drawn  as  they  grow.  And  even  then,  in  their  loveliest 
spring  action,  they  grow  as  you  draw  them,  and  will  not  stay 
quite  the  same  creatures  for  half  an  hour. 

7.  I  said  in  my  inaugural  lectures  at  Oxford,  §  107,  that 
real  botany  is  not  so  much  the  description  of  plants  as  their 
biography.  Without  entering  at  all  into  the  history  of  its 
fruitage,  the  life  and  death  of  the  blossom  itmlf  is  always  an 
eventful  romance,  which  must  be  completely  told,  if  well. 
The  grouping  given  to  the  various  states  of  form  between  bud 


52 


PROSERPINA. 


and  flower  is  always  the  most  important  part  of  the  design  of 
the  plant ;  and  in  the  modes  of  its  death  are  some  of  the 
most  touching  lessons,  or  symbolisms,  connected  with  its  ex- 
istence. The  utter  loss  and  far  scattered  ruin  of  the  cistus 
and  wild  rose, — the  dishonoured  and  dark  contortion  of  the 
convolvulus, — the  pale  wasting  of  the  crimson  heath  of  Apen- 
nine,  are  strangely  opposed  by  the  quiet  closing  of  the  brown 
bells  of  the  ling,  each  making  of  themselves  a  little  cross  as 
they  die  ;  and  so  enduring  into  the  days  of  winter.  I  have 
drawn  the  faded  beside  the  full  branch,  and  know7  not  which 
is  the  more  beautiful. 

8.  This  grouping,  then,  and  way  of  treating  each  other  in 
their  gathered  company,  is  the  first  and  most  subtle  condition 
of  form  in  flowers ;  and,  observe,  I  don't  mean,  just  now,  the 
appointed  and  disciplined  grouping,  but  the  wayward  and  ac- 
cidental. Don't  confuse  the  beautiful  consent  of  the  cluster 
in  these  sprays  of  heath  with  the  legal  strictness  of  a  foxglove, 
— though  that  also  has  its  divinity  ;  but  of  another  kind. 
That  legal  order  of  blossoming — for  which  we  may  wisely 
keep  the  accepted  name,  'inflorescence,' — is  itself  quite  a  sepa- 
rate subject  of  study,  which  we  cannot  take  up  until  we  know 
the  still  more  strict  laws  which  are  set  over  the  flower  itself. 

9.  I  have  in  my  hand  a  small  red  poppy  which  I  gathered 
on  Whit  Sunday  on  the  palace  of  the  Caesars.  It  is  an  in- 
tensely simple,  intensely  floral,  flower.  All  silk  and  flame  :  a 
scarlet  cup,  perfect-edged  all  round,  seen  among  the  wild 
grass  far  away,  like  a  burning  coal  fallen  from  Heaven's  altars. 
You  cannot  have  a  more  complete,  a  more  stainless,  type  of 
flower  absolute ;  inside  and  outside,  all  flower.  No  sparing 
of  colour  anywhere — no  outside  coarsenesses — no  interior 
secrecies  ;  open  as  the  sunshine  that  creates  it ;  fine-finished 
on  both  sides,  down  to  the  extremest  point  of  insertion  on  its 
narrow  stalk  ;  and  robed  in  the  purple  of  the  Caesars. 

Literally  so.  That  poppy  scarlet,  so  far  as  it  could  be 
painted  by  mortal  hand,  for  mortal  King,  stays  yet,  against 
the  sun,  and  wind,  and  rain,  on  the  walls  of  the  house  of 
Augustus,  a  hundred  yards  'from  the  spot  where  I  gathered 
the  weed  of  its  desolation. 


THE  FLOWER 


53 


10.  A  pure  cup,  you  remember  it  is ;  that  much  at  least 
you  cannot  but  remember,  of  poppy-form  among  the  corn- 
fields ;  and  it  is  best,  in  beginning,  to  think  of  every  flower  as 
essentially  a  cup.  There  are  flat  ones,  but  you  will  find  that 
most  of  these  are  really  groups  of  flowers,  not  single  blos- 
soms ;  and  there  are  out  of-the-way  and  quaint  ones,  very  dif- 
ficult to  define  as  of  any  shape ;  but  even  these  have  a  cup  to 
begin  with,  deep  down  in  them.  You  had  better  take  the 
idea  of  a  cup  or  vase,  as  the  first,  simplest,  and  most  general 
form  of  true  flower. 

The  botanists  call  it  a  corolla,  which  means  a  garland,  or  a 
kind  of  crown ;  and  the  Word  is  a  very  good  one,  because  it 
indicates  that  the  flower-cup  is  made,  as  our  clay  cups  are,  on 
a  potter's  wheel  ;  that  it  is  essentially  a  re  volute  form — a  whirl 
or  (botanically)  c  whorl '  of  leaves  ;  in  reality  successive  round 
the  base  of  the  urn  they  form. 

11.  Perhaps,  however,  you  think  poppies  in  general  are  not 
much  like  cups.    But  the  flower  in  my  hand  is  a — poverty- 

stricken  poppy,  I  was  going  to  write,  poverty -strengthened 

poppy,  I  mean.  On  richer  ground,  it  would  have  gushed 
into  flaunting  breadth  of  untenable  purple — flapped  its  incon- 
sistent scarlet  vaguely  to  the  wind — dropped  the  pride  of  its 
petals  over  my  hand  in  an  hour  after  I  gathered  it.  But  this 
little  rough-bred  thing,  a  Campagna  pony  of  a  poppy,  is  as 
bright  and  strong  to-day  as  yesterday.  So  that  I  can  see  ex- 
actly where  the  leaves  join  or  lap  over  each  other  ;  and  when 
I  look  down  into  the  cup,  find  it  to  be  composed  of  iour  leaves 
altogether, — two  smaller,  set  within  two  larger. 

12.  Thus  far  (and  somewhat  farther)  I  had  written  in 
Rome  ;  but  now,  putting  my  work  together  in  Oxford,  a  sud- 
den doubt  troubles  me,  whether  all  poppies  have  two  petals 
smaller  then  the  other  two.  Whereupon  I  take  down  an  ex- 
cellent little  school-book  on  botany — the  best  I've  yet  found, 
thinking  to  be  told  quickly  ;  and  I  find  a  great  deal  about 
opium  ;  and,  apropos  of  opium,  that  the  juice  of  common  cel- 
andine is  of  a  bright  orange  colour  ;  and  I  pause  for  a  bewil- 
dered five  minutes,  wondering  if  a  celandine  is  a  poppy,  and 
how  many  petals  it  has :  going  on  again — because  I  must, 


54 


PROSERPINA. 


without  making  up  my  mind,  on  either  question — I  am  told 
to  "  observe  the  floral  receptacle  of  the  Californian  genus  Esch- 
scholtzia."  Now  I  can't  observe  anything  of  the  sort,  and  I 
don't  want  to  ;  and  I  wish  California  and  all  that's  in  it  were 
at  the  deepest  bottom  of  the  Pacific.  Next  I  am  told  to  com- 
pare the  poppy  and  waterlily  ;  and  I  can't  do  that,  neither — 
though  I  should  like  to  ;  and  there's  the  end  of  the  article  ; 
and  it  never  tells  me  whether  one  pair  of  petals  is  always 
smaller  than  the  other,  or  not.  Only  I  see  it  says  the  corolla 
has  four  petals.  Perhaps  a  celandine  may  be  a  double  poppy, 
and  have  eight,  I  know  they're  tiresome  irregular  things,  and 
I  mustn't  be  stopped  by  them  ;  * — at  any  rate,  my  Koman 
poppy  knew  what  it  was  about,  and  had  its  two  couples  of 
leaves  in  clear  subordination,  of  which  at  the  time  I  went  on 
to  inquire  farther,  as  follows. 

13.  The  next  point  is,  what  shape  are  the  petals  of  ?  And 
that  is  easier  asked  than  answered  ;  for  when  you  pull  them 

off,  you  find  they  won't  lie  flat,  by 

Oany  means,  but  are  each  of  them 
cups,  or  rather  shells,  themselves  ; 
and  that  it  requires  as  much  con- 
chology  as  would  describe  a  cockle, 
before  you  can  properly  give  ac- 
count of  a  single  poppy  leaf.    Or  of 

Oa  single  any  leaf — for  all  leaves  are 
either  shells,  or  boats,  (or  solid,  if 
A  not  hollow,  masses,)  and  cannot  be 
represented  in  flat  outline.  But, 
laying  these  as  flat  as  they  will  lie 
on  a  sheet  of  paper,  you  will  find  the 

Fig.  4. 

piece  they  hide  of  the  paper  they  lie 
on  can  be  drawn  ;  giving  approximately  the  shape  of  the  outer 
leaf  as  at  A,  that  of  the  inner  as  at  B,  Fig.  4  ;  which  you  will 

*  Just  ill  time,  finding  a  heap  of  gold  under  an  oak  tree  some  thou- 
sand years  old,  near  Arundel,  I've  made  them  out :  Eight  divided  hy 
three  ;  that  is  to  say,  three  couples  of  petals,  with  two  odd  little  ones 
inserted  for  form's  sake.  No  wonder  I  couldn't  decipher  them  by 
m  emory. 


THE  FLOWER. 


55 


find  \ery  difficult  lines  to  draw,  for  they  are  each  composed 
of  two  curves,  joined,  as  in  Fig.  5  ;  all  above  the  line  a  b  be- 
ing the  outer  edge  of  the  leaf,  but  joined  so  subtly  to  the  side 
that  the  least  break  in  drawing  the  line  spoils  the  form. 

14.  Now  every  flower  petal  consists  essentially  of  these  two 
parts,  variously  proportioned  and  outlined.  It  expands  from 
C  to  a  b  ;  and  closes  in  the  external  line,  and  for  this  reason. 

Considering  every  flower  under  the  type  of  a  cup,  the  first 
part  of  the  petal  is  that  in  which  it  expands  from  the  bottom 
to  the  rim  ;  the  second  part,  that  in  which  it  terminates  itself 
on  reaching  the  rim.    Thus  let  the  three  circles,  ABC,  Fig. 


C 

Fig.  5. 


6.,  represent  the  undivided  cups  of  the  three  great  geometrical 
orders  of  flowers- — trefoil,  quatrefoil  and  cinquefoil. 

Draw  in  the  first  an  equilateral  triangle,  in  the  second  a 
square,  in  the  third  a  pentagon ;  draw  the  dark  lines  from 
centres  to  angles  ;  (D  E  P)  :  then  (a)  the  third  part  of  D  ;  (b) 
the  fourth  part  of  E,  (c)  the  fifth  part  of  F,  are  the  normal 
outline  forms  of  the  petals  of  the  three  families  ;  the  relations 
between  the  developing  angle  and  limiting  curve  being  varied 
according  to  the  depth  of  cup,  and  the  degree  of  connection 
between  the  petals.    Thus  a  rose  folds  them  over  one  another, 


56 


PROSERPINA. 


in  the  bud  ;  a  convolvulus  twists  them, — the  one  expanding 
into  a  flat  cinquefoil  of  separate  petals,  and  the  other  into  a 
deep- welled  cinquefoil  of  connected  ones. 

I  find  an  excellent  illustration  in  Veronica  Polita,  one  of 
the  most  perfectly  graceful  of  field  plants  because  of  the  light 
alternate  flower  stalks,  each  with  its  leaf  at  the  base  ;  the 
flower  itself  a  quatrefoil,  of  which  the  largest  and  least  petals 
are  uppermost.  Pull  oue  off  its  calyx  (draw,  if  you  can,  the 
outline  of  the  striped  blue  upper  petal  with  the  jagged  edge 
n  n     of  pale  gold  below),  and 

then  examine  the  relative 
shapes  of  the  lateral,  and 
least  upper  petal.  Their 
under  surface  is  very  cu- 
rious, as  if  cov  ered  with 
white  paint;  the  blue 
stripes  above,  in  the  di- 
rection of  their  growth, 
deepening  the  more  deli- 
cate colour  with  exquisite 
insistence. 

A  lilac  blossom  will 
give  you  a  pretty  exam- 
ple of  the  expansion  of  the 
petals  of  a  quatrefoil  above  the  edge  of  the  cup  or  tube ;  but 
I  must  get  back  to  our  poppy  at  present. 

15.  What  outline  its  petals  really  have,  however,  is  little 
shown  in  their  crumpled  fluttering  ;  but  that  very  crumpling 
arises  from  a  fine  floral  character  which  we  do  not  enough 
value  in  them.  We  usually  think  of  the  poppy  as  a  coarse 
flower  ;  but  it  is  the  most  transparent  and  delicate  of  all  the 
blossoms  of  the  field.  The  rest — nearly  all  of  them — depend 
on  the  texture  of  their  surfaces  for  colour.  But  the  poppy  is 
painted  glass ;  it  never  glows  so  brightly  as  when  the  sun  shines 
through  it.  Wherever  it  is  seen — against  the  light  or  with  the 
light — always,  it  is  a  flame,  and  warms  the  wind  like  a  blown 
ruby. 

In  these  two  qualities,  the  accurately  balanced  form,  and 


Fig. 


THE  FLOWER 


57 


the  perfectly  infused  colour  of  the  petals,  you  have,  as  I  said, 
the  central  being  of  the  flower.  All  the  other  parts  of  it  are 
necessary,  but  we  must  follow  them  out  in  order. 

16.  Looking  down  into  the  cup,  you  see  the  green  boss  di- 
vided by  a  black  star, — of  six  rays  only, — and  surrounded  by  a 
few  black  spots.  My  rough-nurtured  poppy  contents  itself  with 
these  for  its  centre  ;  a  rich  one  would  have  had  the  green  boss 
divided  by  a  dozen  of  rays,  and  surrounded  by  a  dark  crowd 
of  crested  threads. 

This  green  boss  is  called  by  botanists  the  pistil,  which 
word  consists  of  the  two  first  syllables  of  the  Latin  pistil- 
lum,  otherwise  more  familiarly  Englished  into  '  pestle.'  The 
meaning  of  the  botanical  word  is  of  course,  also,  that  the  cen- 
tral part  of  a  flower-cup  has  to  it  something  of  the  relations 
that  a  pestle  has  to  a  mortar  !  Practically,  however,  as  this 
pestle  has  no  pounding  functions,  I  think  the  word  is  mislead- 
ing as  well  as  ungraceful  ;  and  that  we  may  find  a  better  one 
after  looking  a  little  closer  into  the  matter.  For  this  pestle 
is  divided  generally  into  three  very  distinct  parts :  there  is  a 
storehouse  at  the  bottom  of  it  for  the  seeds  of  the  plant ; 
above  this,  a  shaft,  often  of  considerable  length  in  deep  cups, 
rising  to  the  level  of  their  upper  edge,  or  above  it  ;  and  at 
the  top  of  these  shafts  an  expanded  crest.  This  shaft  the 
botanists  call  'style,' from  the  Greek  word  for  a  pillar  ;  and 
the  crest  of  it — I  do  not  know  why — stigma,  from  the  Greek 
word  for  'spot.'  The  storehouse  for  the  seeds  they  call  the 
'  ovary,'  from  the  Latin  ovum,  an  egg.  So  you.  have  two- 
thirds  of  a  Latin  word,  (pistil) — awkwardly  ,  and  disagreeably 
edged  in  between  pestle  and  pistol — for  the  whole  thing  ;  you 
have  an  English-Latin  word  (ovary)  for  the  bottom  of  it ;  an 
English-Greek  word  (style)  for  the  middle  ;  and  a  pure  Greek 
word  (stigma)  for  the  top. 

17.  This  is  a  great  mess  of  language,  and  all  the  worse 
that  the  word  style  and  stigma  have  both  of  them  quite  dif- 
ferent senses  in  ordinary  and  scholarly  English  from  this 
forced  botanical  one.  And  I  will  venture  therefore,  for  my 
own  pupils,  to  put  the  four  names  altogether  into  English. 
Instead  of  calling  the  whole  thing  a  pistil,  I  shall  simply  call 


PROSERPINA. 


it  the  pillar.  Instead  of  'ovary,'  I  shall  say  '  Treasury'  (for 
a  seed  isn't  an  egg,  but  it  is  a  treasure).  The  style  I  shall  call 
the  'Shaft,'  and  the  stigma  the  'Volute.'  So  you  will  have 
your  entire  pillar  divided  into  the  treasury,  at  its  base,  the 
shaft,  and  the  volute  ;  and  I  think  you  will  find  these  divi- 
sions easily  remembered,  and  not  unfitted  to  the  sense  of  the 
words  in  their  ordinary  use. 

18.  Bound  this  central,  but,  in  the  poppy,  very  stumpy, 
pillar,  you  find  a  cluster  of  dark  threads,  with  dusty  pen- 
dants or  cups  at  their  ends.  For  these  the  botanists  name 
'  stamens,'  may  be  conveniently  retained,  each  consisting  of  a 
'  filament,'  or  thread,  and  an  '  anther,'  or  blossoming  part. 

And  in  this  rich  corolla,  and  pillar,  or  pillars,  with  their 
treasuries,  and  surrounding  crowd  of  stamens,  the  essential 
flower  consists.  Fewer  than  these  several  parts,  it  cannot 
have,  to  be  a  flower  at  all ;  of  these,  the  corolla  leads,  and  is 
the  object  of  final  purpose.  The  stamens  and  the  treasuries 
are  only  there  in  order  to  produce  future  corollas,  though 
often  themselves  decorative  in  the  highest  degree. 

These,  I  repeat,  are  all  the  essential  parts  of  a  flower.  But 
it  would  have  been  difficult,  with  any  other  than  the  poppy, 
to  have  shown  you  them  alone ;  for  nearly  all  other  flowers 
keep  with  them,  all  their  lives,  their  nurse  or  tutor  leaves, 
— the  group  which,  in  stronger  and  humbler  temper,  pro- 
tected them  in  their  first  weakness,  and  formed  them  to  the 
first  laws  of  their  being.  But  the  poppy  casts  these  tutorial 
leaves  away.  It  is  the  finished  picture  of  impatient  and 
luxury-loving  youth, — at  first  too  severely  restrained,  then 
casting  all  restraint  away, — yet  retaining  to  the  end  of  life 
unseemly  and  illiberal  signs  of  its  once  compelled  submission 
to  laws  which  were  only  pain, — not  instruction. 

19.  Gather  a  green  poppy  bud,  just  when  it  shows  the 
scarlet  line  at  its  side  ;  break  it  open  and  unpack  the  poppy. 
The  whole  flower  is  there  complete  in  size  and  colour, — its 
stamens  full-grown,  but  all  packed  so  closely  that  the  fine  silk 
of  the  petals  is  crushed  into  a  million  of  shapeless  wrinkles. 
When  the  flower  opens,  it  seems  a  deliverance  from  torture  : 
the  two  imprisoning  green  leaves  are  shaken  to  the  ground  ; 


THE  FLOWER 


59 


the  aggrieved  corolla  smooths  itself  in  the  sun,  and  comforts 
itself  as  it  can  ;  but  remains  visibly  crushed  and  hurt  to  the 
end  of  its  days. 

20.  Not  so  flowers  of  gracious  breeding.  Look  at  these 
four  stages  in  the  young  life  of  a  primrose,  Fig.  7.  First 
confined,  as  strictly  as  the  poppy  within  five  pinching  green 
leaves,  whose  points  close  over  it,  the  little  thing  is  content 
to  remain  a  child,  and  finds  its  nursery  large  enough.  The 
green  leaves  unclose  their  points, — the  little  yellow  ones 
peep  out,  like  ducklings.    They  find  the  light  delicious,  and 


Fig.  7. 


open  wide  to  it ;  and  grow,  and  grow,  and  throw  themselves 
wider  at  last  into  their  perfect  rose.  But  they  never  leave 
their  old  nursery  for  all  that ;  it  and  they  live  on  together ; 
and  the  nursery  seems  a  part  of  the  flower. 

21.  Which  is  so,  indeed,  in  all  the  loveliest  flowers  ;  and,  in 
usual  botanical  parlance,  a  flower  is  said  to  consist  of  its 
calyx,  (or  hiding  part — Calypso  having  rule  over  it,)  and 
corolla,  or  garland  part,  Proserpina  having  rule  over  it.  But 
it  is  better  to  think  of  them  always  as  separate  ;  for  this 
calyx,  very  justly  so  named  from  its  main  function  of  conceal- 
ing the  flower,  in  its  youth  is  usually  green,  not  coloured,  and 


60 


PROSERPINA. 


shows  its  separate  nature  by  pausing,  or  at  least  greatly  lin- 
gering, in  its  growth,  and  modifying  itself  very  slightly,  while 
the  corolla  is  forming  itself  through  active  change.    Look  at 
the  two,  for  instance, 
through  the  youth  of 
a  pease  blossom,  Fig. 


The  entire  cluster 
at  first  appears  pen- 
I  dent  in  this  manner,  fig.  8. 

the  stalk  bending  round  on  purpose  to  put  it 
into  that  position.  On  which  all  the 
little  buds,  thinking  themselves  ill- 
treated,  determine  not  to  submit  to 
anything  of  the  sort,  turn  their  points 
upward  persistently,  and  determine 
that — at  any  cost  of  trouble — they  will 
get  nearer  the  sun.  Then  they  begin 
to  open,  and  let  out  their  corollas.  I 
give  the  process  of  one  only  (Fig.  9).* 
It  chances  to  be  engraved  the  reverse 
way  from  the  bud  ;  but  that  is  of  no 
consequence. 

At  first,  you  see  th  e  long  lower  point 
of  the  calyx  thought  that  it  wras  going 
to  be  the  head  of  the  family,  and  curls 
upwards  eagerly.  Then  the  little 
corolla  steals  out ;  and  soon  does  away 
with  that  impression  on  the  mind  of 
the  calyx.  The  corolla  soars  up  with 
widening  wings,  the  abashed  calyx  re- 
treats beneath  ;  and  finally  the  great 
upper  leaf  of  corolla — not  pleased  at 
having  its  back  still  turned  to  the  light, 
and  its  face  down — throws  itself  entirely  back,  to  look  at  the 
sky,  and  nothing  else  ; — and  your  blossom  is  complete. 

Keeping,  therefore,  the  ideas  of  calyx  and  corolla  entirely 
*  Figs.  8  and  9  are  both  drawn  and  engraved  by  Mr.  Burgess. 


Fig.  9. 


THE  FLOWER 


61 


distinct,  this  one  general  point  you  may  note  of  both  ;  that,  as 
a  calyx  is  originally  folded  tight  over  the  flower,  and  has  to 
open  deeply  to  let  it  out,  it  is  nearly  always  composed  of  sharp 
pointed  leaves  like  the  segments  of  a  balloon  ;  while  corollas 
having  to  open  out  as  wide  as  possible  to  show  themselves, 
are  typically  like  cups  or  plates,  only  cut  into  their  edges  here 
and  there,  for  ornamentation's  sake. 

22.  And,  finally,  though  the  corolla  is  essentially  the  floral 
group  of  leaves,  and  usually  receives  the  glory  of  colour  for 
itself  only,  this  glory  and  delight  may  be  given  to  any  other 
part  of  the  group  ;  and,  as  if  to  show  us  that  there  is  no  really 
dishonoured  or  degraded  membership,  the  stalks  and  leaves 
in  some  plants,  near  the  blossom,  flush  in  sympathy  with  it, 
and  become  themselves  a  part  of  the  effectively  visible  flower  ; 
— Eryngo — Jura  hyacinth,  (comosus,)  and  the  edges  of  upper 
stems  and  leaves  in  many  plants  ;  while  others,  (Geranium  lu- 
cidum,)  are  made  to  delight  us  with  their  leaves  rather  than 
their  blossoms  ;  only  I  suppose,  in  these,  the  scarlet  leaf  colour 
is  a  kind  of  early  autumnal  glow, — a  beautiful  hectic,  and  fore- 
taste, in  sacred  youth,  of  sacred  death. 

I  observe,  among  the  speculations  of  modern  science,  sev- 
eral, lately,  not  uningenious,  and  highly  industrious,  on  the 
subject  of  the  relation  of  colour  in  flowers,  to  insects — to  se- 
lective development,  etc.,  etc.  There  are  such  relations,  of 
course.  So  also,  the  blush  of  a  girl,  when  she  first  perceives 
the  faltering  in  her  lover's  step  as  he  draws  near,  is  related 
essentially  to  the  existing  state  of  her  stomach  ;  and  to  the 
state  of  it  through  all  the  years  of  her  previous  existence0 
Nevertheless,  neither  love,  chastity,  nor  blushing,  are  merely 
exponents  of  digestion. 

All  these  materialisms,  in  their  unclean  stupidity,  are  essen- 
tially the  work  of  human  bats  ;  men  of  semi-faculty  or  semi- 
education,  who  are  more  or  less  incapable  of  so  much  as  see- 
ing, much  less  thinking  about,  colour  ;  among  whom,  for  one- 
sided intensity,  even  Mr.  Darwin  must  be  often  ranked,  as  in 
his  vespertilian  treatise  on  the  ocelli  of  the  Argus  pheasant, 
which  he  imagines  to  be  artistically  gradated,  and  perfectly 
imitative  of  a  ball  and  docket.    If  I  had  him  here  in  Oxford 


G2 


PROSERPINA. 


for  a  week,  and  could  force  him  to  try  to  copy  a  feather  by 
Bewick,  or  to  draw  for  himself  a  boy's  thumbed  marble,  his 
notions  of  feathers,  and  balls,  would  be  changed  for  all  the  rest 
of  his  life.  But  his  ignorance  of  good  art  is  no  excuse  for  the 
acutely  illogical  simplicity  of  the  rest  of  his  talk  of  colour  in 
the  " Descent  of  Man."  Peacocks'  tails,  he  thinks,  are  the  re- 
sult of  the  admiration  of  blue  tails  in  the  minds  of  well-bred 
peahens, — and  similarly,  mandrills'  noses  the  result  of  the 
admiration  of  blue  noses  in  well-bred  baboons.  But  it  never 
occurs  to  him  to  ask  wThy  the  admiration  of  blue  noses  is 
healthy  in  baboons,  so  that  it  develops  their  race  properly, 
while  similar  maidenly  admiration  either  of  blue  noses  or  red 
noses  in  men  would  be  improper,  and  develop  the  race  im- 
properly. The  word  itself  '  proper  '  being  one  of  which  he  has 
never  asked,  or  guessed,  the  meaning.  And  when  he  imagined 
the  gradation  of  the  cloudings  in  feathers  to  represent  succes- 
sive generation,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  look  at  the  much 
finer  cloudy  gradations  in  the  clouds  of  dawn  themselves  ;  and 
explain  the  modes  of  sexual  preference  and  selective  develop- 
ment which  had  brought  them  to  their  scarlet  glory,  before 
the  cock  could  crow  thrice.  Putting  all  these  vespertilian 
speculations  out  of  our  way,  the  human  facts  concerning  col- 
our  are  briefly  these.  Wherever  men  are  noble,  they  love 
bright  colour ;  and  wherever  they  can  live  healthily,  bright 
colour  is  given  them — in  sky,  soa,  flowers,  and  living  creatures. 

On  the  other  hand,  wherever  men  are  ignoble  and  sensual, 
they  endure  without  pain,  and  at  last  even  come  to  like 
(especially  if  artists,)  mud-colour  and  black,  and  to  dislike 
rose-colour  and  white.  And  wherever  it  is  unhealthy  for  them 
to  live,  the  poisonousness  of  the  place  is  marked  by  some 
ghastly  colour  in  air,  earth  or  flowers. 

There  are,  of  course,  exceptions  to  all  such  widely  founded 
laws  ;  there  are  poisonous  berries  of  scarlet,  and  pestilent  skies 
that  are  fair.  But,  if  we  once  honestly  compare  a  venomous 
wood-fungus,  rotting  into  black  dissolution  of  dripped  slime 
at  its  edges,  with  a  spring  gentian  ;  or  a  puff  adder  with  a 
Balmon  trout,  or  a  fog  in  Bermondsey  with  a  clear  sky  at 
Berne,  we  shall  get  hold  of  the  entire  question  on  its  right 


PAP  AVER  RHOEAS. 


63 


side  ;  and  be  able  afterwards  to  study  at  our  leisure,  or  accept 
without  doubt  or  trouble,  facts  of  apparently  contrary  mean- 
ing. And  the  practical  lesson  which  I  wish  to  leave  with  the 
reader  is,  that  lovely  flowers,  and  green  trees  growing  in  the 
open  air,  are  the  proper  guides  of  men  to  the  places  which 
their  maker  intended  them  to  inhabit ;  while  the  flowerless 
and  treeless  deserts — of  reed,  or  sand,  or  rock, — are  meant  to 
be  either  heroically  invaded  and  redeemed,  or  surrendered  to 
the  wild  creatures  which  are  appointed  for  them  ;  happy  and 
wonderful  in  their  wild  abodes. 

Nor  is  the  world  so  small  but  that  we  may  yet  leave  in  it 
also  unconquered  spaces  of  beautiful  solitude  ;  where  the 
chamois  and  red  deer  may  wander  fearless, — nor  any  fire  of 
avarice  scorch  from  the  Highlands  of  Alp,  or  Grampian,  the 
rapture  of  the  heath,  and  the  rose. 


CHAPTER  V. 

P  A  P  A  V  E  ft  RHOEAS. 

Brantwood,  July  IWi,  1875. 

1.  Chancing  to  take  up  yesterday  a  favourite  old  book, 
Mavor's  British  Tourists,  (London,  1798,)  I  found  in  its  fourth 
volume  a  delightful  diary  of  a  journey  made  in  1782  through 
various  parts  of  England,  by  Charles  P.  Moritz  of  Berlin. 

And  in  the  fourteenth  page  of  this  diary  I  find  the  follow- 
ing passage,  pleasantly  complimentary  to  England  : — 

"  The  slices  of  bread  and  butter  which  they  give  you  with 
your  tea  are  as  thin  as  poppy  leaves.  But  there  is  another 
kind  of  bread  and  butter  usually  eaten  with  tea,  which  is 
toasted  by  the  fire,  and  is  incomparably  good.  This  is  called 
<  toast.' " 

I  wonder  how  many  people,  nowadays,  whose  bread  and 
butter  was  cut  too  thin  for  them,  would  think  of  comparing 
the  slices  to  poppy  leaves?  But  this  was  in  the  old  days  oi 
travelling,  when  people  did  not  whirl  themselves  past  corn- 
fields, that  they  might  have  more  time  to  walk  on  paving- 


64 


PROSERPINA. 


stones;  and  understood  that  poppies  did  not  mingle  their 
scarlet  among  the  gold,  without  some  purpose  of  the  poppy- 
Maker  that  they  should  be  looked  at. 

Nevertheless,  with  respect  to  the  good  and  polite  German's 
poetically-contemplated,  and  finely  aesthetic,  tea,  may  it  not  be 
asked  whether  poppy  leaves  themselves,  like  the  bread  and 
butter,  are  not,  if  wre  may  venture  an  opinion — too  thin, — im- 
properly  thin  ?  In  the  last  chapter,  my  reader  was,  I  hope,  a 
little  anxious  to  know  w7hat  I  meant  by  saying  that  modern 
philosophers  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  6  proper/ 
and  may  wish  to  know  what  I  mean  by  it  myself.  And  this  I 
think  it  needful  to  explain  before  going  farther. 

2.  In  our  English  prayer-book  translation,  the  first  verse  of 
the  ninety-third  Psalm  runs  thus  :  "  The  Lord  is  King  ;  and 
hath  put  on  glorious  apparel."  And  although,  in  the  future 
republican  world,  there  are  to  be  no  lords,  no  kings,  and  no 
glorious  apparel,  it  will  be  found  convenient,  for  botanical 
purposes,  to  remember  what  such  things  once  were  ;  for  when 
I  said  of  the  poppy,  in  last  chapter,  that  it  was  "  robed  in  the 
purple  of  the  Caesars,"  the  words  gave,  to  any  one  who  had  a 
clear  idea  of  a  Csesar,  and  of  his  dress,  a  better,  and  even 
stricter,  account  of  the  flower  than  if  I  had  only  said,  with 
Mr.  Sowerby,  "  petals  bright  scarlet  ; "  which  might  just  as 
well  have  been  said  of  a  pimpernel,  or  scarlet  geranium  ; — but 
of  neither  of  these  latter  should  I  have  said  "  robed  in  purple 
of  Caesars."  What  I  meant  was,  first,  that  the  poppy  leaf 
looks  dyed  through  and  through,  like  glass,  or  Tyrian  tissue ; 
and  not  merely  painted :  secondly,  that  the  splendour  of  it  is 
proud, — almost  insolently  so.  Augustus,  in  his  glory,  might 
have  been  clothed  like  one  of  these  ;  and  Saul ;  but  not  David 
nor  Solomon  ;  still  less  the  teacher  of  Solomon,  when  He  puts 
on  '  glorious  apparel.' 

3.  Let  us  look,  however,  at  the  two  translations  of  the  same 
verse. 

In  the  vulgate  it  is  "  Dominus  regnavit ;  decorem  indutus 
est ; "  He  has  put  on  6  becomingness,' — decent  apparel,  rather 
than  glorious. 

In  the  Septuagint  it  is  zvirpzirua—  we/Z-becomingnese  ;  an  ex- 


PAPAVEll  R110EAS. 


65 


pression  which,  if  the  reader  considers,  must  imply  certainly 
the  existence  of  an  opposite  idea  of  possible  '  a7Z-becoming- 
ness/ — of  an  apparel  which  should,  in  just  as  accurate  a 
sense,  belong  appropriately  to  the  creature  invested  with  it, 
and  yet  not  be  glorious,  but  inglorious,  and  not  well-becom- 
ing, but  ill-becoming.  The  mandrill's  blue  nose,  for  instance, 
already  referred  to,  can  we  rightly  speak  of  this  as  '  evirpeire  a '  ? 
Or  the  stings,  and  minute,  colourless  blossoming  of  the  nettle  ? 
May  we  call  these  a  glorious  apparel,  as  we  may  the  glowing  of 
an  alpine  rose  ? 

You  will  find  on  reflection,  and  find  more  convincingly  the 
more  accurately  you  reflect,  that  there  is  an  absolute  sense 
attached  to  such  words  as  '  decent,'  '  honourable/  £  glorious,' 
or  '  kuAos,'  contrary  to  another  absolute  sense  in  the  words 
'  indecent/  'shameful/  4  vile/  or  (  alaxpos.* 

And  that  there  is  every  degree  of  these  absolute  qualities 
visible  in  living  creatures  ;  and  that  the  divinity  of  the  Mind 
of  man  is  in  its  essential  discernment  of  what  is  koXov  from 
what  is  aicrxpov,  and  in  his  preference  of  the  kind  of  creatures 
which  are  decent,  to  those  which  are  indecent ;  and  of  the 
kinds  of  thoughts,  in  himself,  which  are  noble,  to  those  which 
are  vile. 

4.  When  therefore  I  said  that  Mr.  Darwin,  and  his  school,* 
had  no  conception  of  the  real  meaning  of  the  word  ' proper,' 
I  meant  that  they  conceived  the  qualities  of  things  only  as 
their  'properties,'  but  not  as  their  '  becomingnesses ; •  and  see- 
ing that  dirt  is  proper  to  a  swine,  malice  to  a  monke}%  poison 
to  a  nettle,  and  folly  to  a  fool,  they  called  a  nettle  but  a  nettle, 
and  the  faults  of  fools  but  folly  ;  and  never  saw  the  difference 
between  ugliness  and  beauty  absolute,  decency  and  indecency 
absolute,  glory  or  shame  absolute,  and  folly  or  sense  absolute. 

Whereas,  the  perception  of  beauty,  and  the  power  of  defin- 
ing physical  character,  are  based  on  moral  instinct,  and  on  the 
power  of  defining  animal  or  human  character.  Nor  is  it  pos- 
sible to  say  that  one  flower  is  more  highly  developed,  or  one 
animal  of  a  higher  order,  than  another,  without  the  assump- 

*  Of  Vespertilian  science  generally,  compare  'Eagles'  Nest/  pp.  23 
and  126. 


66 


PROSERPINA. 


tion  of  a  divine  law  of  perfection  to  which  the  one  more  coi* 
forms  than  the  other. 

5.  Thus,  for  instance.    That  it  should  ever  have  been  an 

open  question  with 
me  whether  a  pop- 
py had  always  two 
of  its  petals  less 
than  the  other  two, 
depended  wholly 
on  the  hurry  and 
imperfection  with 
which  the  poppy 
carries  out  its  plan. 
It  never  would  have 
occurred  to  me  to 
doubt  whether  an 
iris  had  three  of  its 
leaves  smaller  than 
the  other  three,  be- 
cause an  iris  always 
completes  itself  to 
its  own  ideal. 
Nevertheless,  on 
examining  various 
poppies,  as  I  walk- 
ed, this  summer,  up 
and  down  the  hills 
between  Sheffield 
and  Wakefield,  I 
find  the  subordina- 
tion of  the  upper 
and  lower  petals 
entirely  necessary 
and  normal ;  and 
that  the  result  of  it  is  to  give  two  distinct  profiles  to  the 
poppy  cup,  the  difference  between  which,  however,  we  shall 
see  better  in  the  yellow  Welsh  poppy,  at  present  called 
Meconopsis  Cambrica;  but  which,  in  the  Oxford  school^ 


Fig.  10. 


FAPAVER  RIIOEAS. 


67 


will  be  'Papaver  cruciforme  ' — £Crosslet  Poppy/ — first,  be- 
cause all  our  botanical  names  must  be  in  Latin  if  possible  ; 
Greek  only  allowed  when  we  can  do  no  better ;  second ly, 
because  meconopsis  is  barbarous  Greek  ;  thirdly,  and  chiefly, 
because  it  is  little  matter  whether  this  poppy  be  Welsh  or 
English  ;  but  very  needful  that  we  should  observe,  wher- 
ever it  grows,  that  the  petals 
are  arranged  in  what  used  to 
be,  in  my  young  days,  called 
a  diamond  shape,*  as  at  A, 
Fig.  10,  the  two  narrow  inner 
ones  at  right  angles  to,  and 
projecting  farther  than,  the 
two  outside  broad  ones ;  and 
that  the  two  broad  ones,  when 
the  flower  is  seen  in  profile, 
as  at  B,  show  their  margins 
folded  back,  as  indicated  by 
the  thicker  lines,  and  have  a 
profile  curve,  which  is  only 
the  softening,  or  melting 
away  into  each  other,  of  two 
straight  lines.  Indeed,  when 
the  flower  is  younger,  and 
quite  strong,  both  its  profiles, 
A  and  B,  Fig.  11,  are  nearly 
straight-sided  ;  and  always, 
be  it  young  or  old,  one 
broader  than  the  other,  so  as 
to  give  the  flower,  seen  from  above,  the  shape  of  a  contracted 
cross,  or  crosslet. 

6.  Now  I  find  no  notice  of  this  flower  in  Gerarde  ;  and  in 
Sowerby,  out  of  eighteen  lines  of  closely  printed  descriptive 
text,  no  notice  of  its  crosslet  form,  while  the  petals  are  only 
stated  to  be  "  roundish-concave,"  terms  equally  applicable  to 
at  least  one-half  of  all  flower  petals  in  the  world.    The  leaves 

*  The  mathematical  term  is  '  rhomb.1 


68  PROSERPINA. 

are  said  to  be  very  deeply  pinnately  partite  ;  but  drawn — as 
neither  pinnate  nor  partite  ! 

And  this  is  your  modern  cheap  science,  in  ten  volumes. 
Now  I  haven't  a  quiet  moment  to  spare  for  drawing  this  morn- 
ing ;  but  I  merely  give  the  main  relations  of  the  petals,  A,  and 
blot  in  the  wrinkles  of  one  of  the  lower  ones,  B,  Fig.  12  ;  and 
yet  in  this  rude  sketch  you  will  feel,  I  believe,  there  is  some- 
thing specific  which  could  not  belong  to  any  other  iiowrer. 
But  all  proper  description  is  impossible  without  careful  pro- 
files of  each  petal  laterally  and  across  it.  Which  I  may  not 
find  time  to  draw  for  any  poppy  whatever,  because  they  none 


A  B 


Fig.  12. 

of  them  have  well-becomingness  enough  to  make  it  worth  my 
while,  being  all  more  or  less  weedy,  and  ungracious,  and  min- 
gled of  good  and  evil.  Whereupon  rises  before  me,  ghostly 
and  untenable,  the  general  question,  '  What  is  a  weed  ?  5  and, 
impatient  for  answer,  the  particular  question,  What  is  a  poppy  ? 
I  choose,  for  instance,  to  call  this  yellow  flower  a  poppy,  instead 
of  a  "likeness  to  poppy,"  which  the  botanists  meant  to  call  it, 
in  their  bad  Greek.  I  choose  also  to  call  a  poppy,  what  the 
botanists  have  called  "  glaucous  thing,"  (glaucium).  But 
where  and  when  shall  I  stop  calling  things  poppies  ?  This  is 
certainly  a  question  to  be  settled  at  once,  with  others  apper- 
taining to  it  -  ~  -  -  - 


PAP  AVER  RHOEAS. 


69 


7.  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  mean  to  call  every  flower  either 
one  thing  or  another,  and  not  an  '  aceous '  thing,  only  half  some- 
thing or  half  another.  I  mean  to  call  this  plant  now  in  my 
hand,  either  a  poppy  or  not  a  poppy  ;  but  not  poppaeeous. 
And  this  other,  either  a  thistle  or  not  a  thistle  ;  but  not  thistla- 
ceous.  And  this  other,  either  a  nettle  or  not  a  nettle  ;  but 
not  nettlaceous.  I  know  it  will  be  very  difficult  to  carry  out 
this  principle  when  tribes  of  plants  are  much  extended  and 
varied  in  type  :  I  shall  persist  in  it,  however,  as  far  as  possi- 
ble ;  and  when  plants  change  so  much  that  one  cannot  with 
any  conscience  call  them  by  their  family  name  any  more,  I 
shall  put  them  aside  somewhere  among  families  of  poor  rela- 
tions, not  to  be  minded  for  the  present,  until  we  are  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  better  bred  circles.  I  don't  know,  for  in- 
stance, whether  I  shall  call  the  Burnet  '  Grass-rose,'  or  put  it 
out  of  court  for  having  no  petals  ;  but  it  certainly  shall  not 
be  called  rosaceous  ;  and  my  first  point  will  be  to  make  sure 
of  my  pupils  having  a  clear  idea  of  the  central  and  unques- 
tionable forms  of  thistle,  grass,  or  rose,  and  assigning  to  them 
pure  Latin,  and  pretty  English,  names, — classical,  if  possible? 
and  at  least  intelligible  and  decorous. 

8.  I  return  to  our  present  special  question,  then,  What  is  a 
poppy  ?  and  return  also  to  a  book  I  gave  away  long  ago,  and 
have  just  begged  back  again,  Dr.  Lindley's  Ladies'  Botany. 
For  without  at  all  looking  upon  ladies  as  inferior  beings,  I 
dimly  hope  that  what  Dr.  Lindley  considers  likely  to  be  intel- 
ligible to  them,  may  be  also  clear  to  their  very  humble  servant. 

The  poppies,  I  find,  (page  19,  vol.  i.)  differ  from  crowfeet 
in  being  of  a  stupefying  instead  of  a  burning  nature,  and  in 
generally  having  two  sepals,  and  twTice  two  petals^  "but  as  some 
poppies  have  three  sepals,  and  twice  three  petals,  the  num- 
ber of  these  parts  is  not  sufficiently  constant  to  form  an 
essential  mark."  Yes,  I  know  that,  for  I  found  a  superb  six- 
petaled  poppy,  spotted  like  a  cistus,  the  other  day  in  a  friend's 
garden.  But  then,  what  makes  it  a  poppy  still  ?  That  it  is 
of  a  stupefying  nature,  and  itself  so  stupid  that  it  does  not 
know  how  many  petals  it  should  have,  is  surely  not  enough 
distinction  ? 


70 


PROSERPINA. 


9.  Eeturning  to  Lindley,  and  working  the  matter  farther 
out  with  his  help,  I  think  this  definition  might  stand  :  "  A 
poppy  is  a  flower  which  has  either  four  or  six  petals,  and  two 
or  more  treasuries,  united  into  one  ;  containing  a  milky,  stupe- 
fying fluid  in  its  stalks  and  leaves,  and  always  throwing  away 
its  calyx  when  it  blossoms." 

And  indeed,  every  flower  which  unites  all  these  characters, 
we  shall,  in  the  Oxford  schools,  call  'poppy/  and  'Papaver  ;' 
but  when  I  get  fairly  into  work,  I  hope  to  fix  my  definitions 
into  more  strict  terms.  For  I  wish  all  my  pupils  to  form  the 
habit  of  asking,  of  every  plant,  these  following  four  questions, 
in  order,  corresponding  to  the  subject  of  these  opening  chap- 
ters, namely,  "What  root  has  it?  what  leaf?  what  flower? 
and  what  stem  ?  "  And,  in  this  definition  of  poppies,  nothing 
wrhatever  is  said  about  the  root  ;  and  not  only  I  don't  know 
myself  what  a  poppy  root  is  like,  but  in  all  Sowerby's  poppy 
section,  I  find  no  word  whatever  about  that  matter. 

10.  Leaving,  however,  for  the  present,  the  root  unthought 
of,  and  contenting  myself  with  Dr.  Lindley 's  characteristics,  I 
shall  place,  at  the  head  of  the  whole  group,  our  common 
European  wild  poppy,  Papaver  Ehoeas,  and,  with  this,  arrange 
the  nine  following  other  flowers  thus, — opposite. 

I  must  be  content  at  present  with  determining  the  Latin 
names  for  the  Oxford  schools  ;  the  English  ones  I  shall  give 
as  they  chance  to  occur  to  me,  in  Gerard e  and  the  classical 
poets  who  wrote  before  the  English  revolution.  When  no 
satisfactory  name  is  to  be  found,  I  must  try  to  invent  one  ; 
as,  for  instance,  just  now,  I  don't  like  Gerard's  ■  Corn-rose ' 
for  Papaver  Ehoeas,  and  must  coin  another  ;  but  this  can't  be 
done  by  thinking  :  it  will  come  into  my  head  some  day,  by 
chance.  I  might  try  at  it  straightforwardly  for  a  week  to- 
gether, and  not  do  it. 

The  Latin  names  must  be  fixed  at  once,  somehow  ;  and 
therefore  I  do  the  best  I  can,  keeping  as  much  respect  for  the 
old  nomenclature  as  possible,  though  this  involves  the  illogical 
practice  of  giving  the  epithet  sometimes  from  the  flower, 
(violaceum,  cruciforme),  and  sometimes  from  the  seed  vessel, 
(elatum,  echinosum,  corniculatum).    Guarding  this  distinc- 


PAP  AVER  EI10EAS. 


71 


tion,  however,  we  may  perhaps  be  content  to  call  the  six  last 
of  the  group,  in  English,  Urchin  Poppy,  Violet  Poppy,  Cross- 
let  Poppy,  Horned  Poppy,  Beach  Poppy,  and  Welcome  Poppy. 
I  don't  think  the  last  flower  pretty  enough  to  be  connected 
more  directly  with  the  swallow,  in  its  English  name. 


Name  in  Oxford  Catalogue. 

DlOSCOKIDES. 

In  present  Botany. 

3.  P.  Elatum  

fl7)KU>V  potas..  .  . 
fl.  KTjTreVTTJ  *  .  . 
fJL.  dvKaKLTIS  f .  . 

Papaver  EJioeas 
P.  Hortense 
P.  Lamottei 
P.  Argemone 
P.  Hybrid  urn 
Roemeria  Hybrida 
Meconopsis  Cambrica 
Glaucium  Corniculatum 
Glaucium  Luteum 
Cheiidonium  Majus 

5.  P.  Eehinosnm  

6.  P.  Violaomim     

9.  P.  Littorale   

10.  P.  Chelidonium   

fx.  Kepariris  .  .  . 
/j..  irapaKios.. .  . 

11.  I  shall  be  well  content  if  my  pupils  know  these  ten  pop- 
pies rightly  ;  all  of  them  at  present  wild  in  our  own  country, 
and,  I  believe,  also  European  in  range  :  the  head  and  type  of 
all  being  the  common  wild  poppy  of  our  cornfields  for  which 
the  name  'Papaver  Khoeas, ' given  it  by  Dioscorides,  Gerard e, 
and  Linnaeus,  is  entirely  authoritative,  and  we  will  therefore 
at  once  examine  the  meaning,  and  reason,  of  that  name, 

12.  Dioscorides  says  the  name  belongs  to  it  "  Sta  to  ra^eW 
to  av8os  airofiaWeLv"  "  because  it  casts  off  its  bloom  quickly," 
from  pew,  (rheo)  in  the  sense  of  shedding.J  And  this  indeed 
it  does, — first  calyx,  then  corolla  ; — you  may  translate  it 
6  swiftly  ruinous '  poppy,  but  notice,  in  connection  with  this 
idea,  how  it  droops  its  head  before  blooming :  an  action  which 
I  doubt  not,  mingled  in  Homer's  thought  with  the  image  of 
its  depression  when  filled  by  rain,  in  the  passage  of  the  Iliad, 

*  §s  rb  (Tirepfxa  aproTroi^Tai. 

|  iiriurjKes  ixovffa  ™  Ki<piKiou.  Dioscorides  makes  no  effort  to  distin- 
guish species,  but  gives  tlie  different  names  as  if  merely  used  in  differ- 
ent places 

%lt  is  also  used  sometimes  of  the  garden  poppy,  says  Dioscorides, 
tl  dia  rb  pus  €|  avrTjs  rbf  oirot/" — k<  because  the  sap,  opium,  flows  from  it." 


72 


PROSERPINA. 


which,  as  I  have  relieved  your  memory  of  three  unnecessary 
names  of  poppy  families,  you  have  memory  to  spare  for  learn- 
ing. 

KapTr<£  fipiQojucvT),  vanf/Vi  re  eidpivrja  iv 
&s  SrepQOcr'  fjjjLVcre  Kaprj  ir^Xij/fi  fiapvvdcv." 

"And  as  a  poppy  lets  its  head  fall  aside,  which  in  a  garden 
is  loaded  with  its  fruit,  and  with  the  soft  rains  of  spring,  so 
the  youth  drooped  his  head  on  one  side  ;  burdened  with  the 
helmet." 

And  now  you  shall  compare  the  translations  of  this  passage, 
with  its  context,  by  Chapman  and  Pope — (or  the  school  of 
Pope),  the  one  being  by  a  man  of  pure  English  temper,  and 
able  therefore  to  understand  pure  Greek  temper  ;  the  other  in- 
fected with  all  the  faults  of  the  falsely  classical  school  of  the 
Benaissance. 

First  I  take  Chapman  : — 

"  His  shaft  smit  fair  Gorgythion,  of  Praim's  princely  race 
Who  in  iEpina  was  brought  forth,  a  famous  town  in  Thrace, 
By  Castianeira,  that  for  form  was  like  celestial  breed, 
And  as  a  crimson  poppy-flower,  surcharged  with  his  seed, 
And  vernal  humours  falling  thick,  declines  his  heavy  brow, 
So,  a-oneside,  his  helmet's  weight  his  fainting  head  did  bow.' 

Next,  Pope : — 

"He  missed  the  mark;  but  pierced  Gorgythio's  heart, 
And  drenched  in  royal  blood  the  thirsty  dart : 
(Fair  Castianeira,  nymph  of  form  divine, 
This  offspring  added  to  King  Priam's  line). 
As  full-blown  poppies,  overcharged  with  rain, 
Decline  the  head,  and  drooping  kiss  the  plain, 
So  sinks  the  youth  :  his  beauteous  head,  depressed 
Beneath  his  helmet,  drops  upon  his  breast.'* 

13.  I  give  you  the  two  passages  in  full,  trusting  that  you 
may  so  feel  the  becomingness  of  the  one,  and  the  graceless- 
ness  of  the  other.  But  note  farther,  in  the  Homeric  passage, 
one  subtlety  which  cannot  enough  be  marked  even  in  Chap- 
man's English,  that  his  second  word,  r/^ucre,  is  employed  by 


PAP  AVER  PJIOEAS. 


73 


him  both  of  the  stooping  of  ears  of  corn,  under  wind,  and  of 
Troy  stooping  to  its  ruin  ;  *  and  otherwise,  in  good  Greek 
writers,  the  word  is  marked  as  having  such  specific  sense  of 
men's  drooping  under  weight ;  or  towards  death,  under  the 
burden  of  fortune  which  they  have  no  more  strength  to  sus- 
tain ;  f  compare  the  passage  I  quoted  from  Plato,  ('  Crown  of 

*  See  all  the  passages  quoted  by  Liddell. 

f  I  find  this  chapter  rather  tiresome  on  re-reading  it  myself,  and  can- 
cel some  farther  criticism  of  the  imitation  of  this  passage  by  Virgil,  one 
of  the  few  pieces  of  the  iSneid  which  are  purely  and  vulgarly  imitative, 
rendered  also  false  as  well  as  weak  by  the  introducing  sentence,  uVol- 
vitur  Euryalus  leto,"  after  which  the  simile  of  the  drooping  flower  is 
absurd.  Of  criticism,  the  chief  use  of  which  is  to  warn  all  sensible 
men  from  such  business,  the  following  abstract  of  Diderot s  notes  on  the 
passage,  given  in  the  1  Saturday  Review'  for  April  29th,  1871,  is  worth 
preserving.  (Was  the  French  critic  really  not  aware  that  Homer  had 
written  the  lines  his  own  way  ?) 

"  Diderot  illustrates  his  theory  of  poetical  hieroglyphs  by  no  quota- 
tions, but  we  can  show  the  manner  of  his  minute  and  sometimes  fanci- 
ful criticism  by  repeating  his  analysis  of  the  passage  of  Virgil  wherein 
the  death  of  Euryalus  is  described : 

1  Pulchrosque  per  art  us 
It  cruor,  inque  humeros  cervix  collapsa  recumbit  ; 
Purpureus  veluti  cum  flos  succisus  aratro 
Languescit  moriens  ;  lassove  papavera  collo 
Demisere  caput,  pluvia  cum  forte  gravantur.' 

"The  sound  of  'It  cruor,'  according  to  Diderot,  suggests  the  image 
of  a  jet  of  blood  ;  <  cervix  collapsa  recumbit,'  the  fall  of  a  dying  man's 
head  upon  his  shoulder  ;  '  succisus '  imitates  the  use  of  a  cutting  scythe 
(not  plough)  ;  4  demisere  '  is  as  soft  as  the  eye  of  a  flower  ;  '  gravantur,' 
on  the  other  hand,  has  all  the  weight  of  a  calyx,  filled  with  rain  ;  4  col- 
lapsa' marks  an  effort  and  a  fall,  and  similar  double  duty  is  performed 
by  'papavera,'  the  first  two  syllables  symbolizing  the  poppy  upright,  the 
last  two  the  poppy  bent.  While  thus  pursuing  his  minute  investiga- 
tions, Diderot  can  scarcely  help  laughing  at  himself,  and  candidly  owns 
that  he  is  open  to  the  suspicion  of  discovering  in  the  poem  beauties 
which  have  no  existence.  He  therefore  qualifies  his  eulogy  by  pointing 
out  two  faults  in  the  passage.  '  Gravantur,'  notwithstanding  the  praise 
it  has  received,  is  a  little  too  heavy  for  the  light  head  of  a  poppy,  even 
when  filled  with  water.  As  for  '  aratro,'  coming  as  it  does  after  the  hiss 
of  1  succisus,'  it  is  altogether  abominable.    Had  Homer  written  the  line*, 


74 


PROSERPINA. 


Wild  Olive/ p.  95):  "And  bore  lightly  the  burden  of  gold 
and  of  possessions."  And  thus  you  will  begin  to  understand 
how  the  poppy  became  in  the  heathen  mind  the  type  at  once 
of  power,  or  pride,  and  of  its  loss ;  and  therefore,  both  why 
Virgil  represents  the  white  nymph  Nais,  "pallentes  violas,  et 
summa  papavera  carpens," — gathering  the  pale  flags,  and  the 
highest  poppies,— and  the  reason  for  the  choice  of  this  rather 
than  any  other  flower,  in  the  story  of  Tarquin's  message  to  his 
son. 

14  But  you  are  next  to  remember  the  word  Ehoeas  in 
another  sense.  Whether  originally  intended  or  afterwards 
caught  at,  the  resemblance  of  the  word  to  'Rhoea,'  a  pome- 
granate, mentally  connects  itself  with  the  resemblance  of  the 
poppy  head  to  the  pomegranate  fruit. 

And  if  I  allow  this  flower  to  be  the  first  we  take  up  for  care- 
ful study  in  'Proserpina/  on  account  of  its  simplicity  of  form 
and  splendour  of  colour,  I  wish  you  also  to  remember,  in  con- 
nection with  it,  the  cause  of  Proserpine's  eternal  captivity — 
her  having  tasted  a  pomegranate  seed, — the  pomegranate  be- 
ing in  Greek  mythology  what  the  apple  is  in  the  Mosaic  le- 
gend ;  and,  in  the  whole  worship  of  Demeter,  associated  with 
the  poppy  by  a  multitude  of  ideas  which  are  not  definitely 
expressed,  but  can  only  be  gathered  out  of  Greek  art  and 
literature,  as  we  learn  their  symbolism.  The  chief  character 
on  which  these  thoughts  are  founded  is  the  fulness  of  seed  in 
the  poppy  and  pomegranate,  as  an  image  of  life :  then  the 
forms  of  both  became  adopted  for  beads  or  bosses  in  orna- 
mental art  ;  the  pomegranate  remains  more  distinctly  a  Jew- 
ish and  Christian  type,  from  its  use  in  the  border  of  Aaron's 
robe,  down  to  the  fruit  in  the  hand  of  Angelico's  and  Botti- 
celli's Infant  Christs ;  while  the  poppy  is  gradually  confused 
by  the  Byzantine  Greeks  with  grapes  ;  and  both  of  these  with 

he  would  have  ended  with  some  hieroglyph,  which  would  have  contin- 
ued the  hiss  or  described  the  fall  of  a  flower.  To  the  hiss  of  *  succisus  ' 
Diderot  is  warmly  attached.  Not  by  mistake,  but  in  order  to  justify  the 
sound,  he  ventures  to  translate  '  aratrum  '  into  '  scythe,'  boldly  and 
rightly  declaring  in  a  marginal  note  that  this  is  not  the  meaning  of  the 
word/' 


PAPAVER  RHOEAS. 


75 


palm  fruit.  The  palm,  in  the  shorthand  of  their  art,  grad- 
ually becomes  a  symmetrical  branched  ornament  with  two 
pendent  bosses ;  this  is  again  confused  with  the  Greek  iris, 
(Homer's  blue  iris,  and  Pindar's  water-flag, ) — and  the  Floren- 
tines, in  adopting  Byzantine  ornament,  read  it  into  their  own 
Fleur-de-lys  ;  but  insert  two  poppyheads  on  each  side  of  the 
entire  foil,  in  their  finest  heraldry. 

15.  Meantime  the  definitely  intended  poppy,  in  late  Chris- 
tian Greek  art  of  the  twelfth  century,  modifies  the  form  of  the 
Acanthus  leaf  with  its  own,  until  the  northern  twelfth-century 
workman  takes  the  thistle-head  for  the  poppy,  and  the  thistle- 
leaf  for  acanthus.  The  true  poppy-head  remains  in  the  south, 
but  gets  more  and  more  confused  with  grapes,  till  the  Ke- 
naissance  carvers  are  content  with  any  kind  of  boss  full  of 
seed,  but  insist  on  such  boss  or  bursting  globe  as  some  essen- 
tial part  of  their  ornament ; — the  bean-pod  for  the  same  rea- 
son (not  without  Pythagorean  notions,  and  some  of  republican 
election)  is  used  by  Brunelleschi  for  main  decoration  of  the 
lantern  of  Florence  duomo  ;  and,  finally,  the  ornamentation 
gets  so  shapeless,  that  M.  Violet-le-Duc,  in  his  £  Dictionary  of 
Ornament/  loses  trace  of  its  origin  altogether,  and  fancies  the 
later  forms  were  derived  from  the  spadix  of  the  arum. 

16.  I  have  no  time  to  enter  into  farther  details  ;  but 
through  all  this  vast  range  of  art,  note  this  singular  fact,  that 
the  wheat  ear,  the  vine,  the  fleur-de-lys,  the  poppy,  and  the 
jagged  leaf  of  the  acanthus-weed,  or  thistle,  occupy  the  entire 
thoughts  of  the  decorative  workmen  trained  in  classic  schools, 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  rose,  true  lily,  and  other  the  flowers  of 
luxury.  And  that  the  deeply  underlying  reason  of  this  is  in 
the  relation  of  weeds  to  corn,  or  of  the  adverse  powers  of  nat- 
ure to  the  beneficent  ones,  expressed  for  us  readers  of  the 
Jewish  scriptures,  centrally  in  the  verse,  "  thorns  also,  and 
thistles,  shall  it  bring  forth  to  thee  ;  and  thou  shalt  eat  the 
herb  of  the  field"  (xopros,  grass  or  corn),  and  exquisitely 
symbolized  throughout  the  fields  of  Europe  by  the  presence 
of  the  purple  'corn-flag,'  or  gladiolus,  and  'corn-rose'  (Ge- 
rarde's  name  for  Papaver  Khoeas),  in  the  midst  of  carelessly 
tended  corn  ;  and  in  the  traditions  of  the  art  of  Europe  by 


76 


PROSERPINA. 


the  springing  of  the  Acanthus  round  the  basket  of  the  cane- 
phora,  strictly  the  basket  for  bread,  the  idea  of  bread  includ- 
ing all  sacred  things  carried  at  the  feasts  of  Demeter,  Bacchus, 
and  the  Queen  of  the  Air.  And  this  springing  of  the  thorny 
weeds  round  the  basket  of  reed,  distinctly  taken  up  by  the 
Byzantine  Italians  in  the  basket-work  capital  of  the  twelfth 
century,  (which  I  have  already  illustrated  at  length  in  the 
'Stones  of  Venice,')  becomes  the  germ  of  all  capitals  whatso- 
ever, in  the  great  schools  of  Gothic,  to  the  end  of  Gothic 
time,  and  also  of  all  the  capitals  of  the  pure  and  noble  Ee- 
naissance  architecture  of  Angelico  and  Perugino,  and  all  that 
was  learned  from  them  in  the  north,  while  the  introduction 
of  the  rose,  as  a  primal  element  of  decoration,  only  takes  place 
when  the  luxury  of  English  decorated  Gothic,  the  result  of 
that  licentious  spirit  in  the  lords  which  brought  on  the  Wars 
of  the  Eoses,  indicates  the  approach  of  destruction  to  the 
feudal,  artistic,  and  moral  power  of  the  northern  nations. 

For  which  reason,  and  many  others,  I  must  yet  delay  the 
following  out  of  our  main  subject,  till  I  have  answered  the 
other  question,  which  brought  me  to  pause  in  the  middle  of 
this  chapter,  namely,  '  What  is  a  weed  ? ' 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE  PARABLE  OF  JOASH. 

1.  Some  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  I  bought — three  times 
twelve  are  thirty-six — of  a  delightful  little  book  by  Mrs. 
Gatty,  called  '  Aunt  Judy's  Tales ' — whereof  to  make  presents 
to  my  little  lady  friends.  I  had,  at  that  happy  time,  perhaps 
from  four-ancl- twenty  to  six-and- thirty — I  forget  exactly  how 
many — very  particular  little  lady  friends  ;  and  greatly  wished 
Aunt  Judy  to  be  the  thirty-seventh, — the  kindest,  wittiest, 
prettiest  girl  one  had  ever  read  of,  at  least  in  so  entirely 
proper  and  orthodox  literature. 

2.  Not  but  that  it  is  a  suspicious  sign  of  infirmity  of  faith 
in  our  modern  moralists  to  make  their  exemplary  young  peo* 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JOASH. 


77 


pie  always  pretty  ;  and  dress  them  always  in  the  height  of  the 
fashion.  One  may  read  Miss  Edge  worth's  1  Harry  and  Lucy/ 
*  Frank  and  Mary/  '  Fashionable  Tales,'  or  'Parents'  Assist- 
tant/  through,  from  end  to  end,  with  extremest  care  ;  and 
never  find  out  whether  Lucy  was  tall  or  short,  nor  whether 
Mary  was  dark  or  fair,  nor  how  Miss  Annaly  was  dressed,  nor, 
— which  was  my  own  chief  point  of  interest — what  was  the 
colour  of  Rosamond's  eyes.  Whereas  Aunt  Judy,  in  charm- 
ing position  after  position,  is  shown  to  have  expressed  all  her 
pure  evangelical  principles  with  the  prettiest  of  lips  ;  and  to 
have  had  her  gown,  though  puritanically  plain,  made  by  one 
of  the  best  modistes  in  London. 

3.  Nevertheless,  the  book  is  wholesome  and  useful ;  and  the 
nicest  story  in  it,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  is  an  inquiry  into  the 
subject  which  is  our  present  business,  '  What  is  a  weed  ? ' — in 
which,  by  many  pleasant  devices,  Aunt  Judy  leads  her  little 
brothers  and  sisters  to  discern  that  a  weed  is  '  a  plant  in  the 
wrong  place.' 

1  Vegetable  '  in  the  wrong  place,  by  the  way,  I  think  Aunt 
Judy  says,  being  a  precisely  scientific  little  aunt.  But  I  can't 
keep  it  out  of  my  own  less  scientific  head  that  '  vegetable  ' 
means  only  something  going  to  be  boiled,  I  like  '  plant '  bet- 
ter for  general  sense,  besides  that  it's  shorter. 

Whatever  we  call  them,  Aunt  Judy  is  perfectly  right  about 
them  as  far  as  she  has  gone  ;  but,  as  happens  often  even  to  the 
best  of  evangelical  instructresses,  she  has  stopped  just  short 
of  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter.  It  is  entirely  true  that  a  weed 
is  a  plant  that  has  got  into  a  wrong  place  ;  but  it  never  seems 
to  have  occurred  to  Aunt  Judy  that  some  plants  never  do  ! 

Who  ever  saw  a  wood  anemone  or  a  heath  blossom  in  the 
wrong  place  ?  Who  ever  saw  nettle  or  hemlock  in  a  right 
one  ?  And  yet,  the  difference  between  flower  and  weed,  (I 
use,  for  convenience  sake,  these  words  in  their  familiar  oppo- 
sition,) certainly  does  not  consist  merely  in  the  flowers  being 
innocent,  and  the  weed  stinging  and  venomous.  We  do  not 
call  the  nightshade  a  weed  in  our  hedges,  nor  the  scarlet  agaric 
in  our  woods.    But  we  do  the  corncockle  in  our  fields. 

4.  Had  the  thoughtful  little  tutoress  gone  but  one  thought 


78 


PROSERPWA. 


farther,  and  instead  of  "a  vegetable  in  a  wrong  place (which 
it  may  happen  to  the  innocentest  vegetable  sometimes  to  be, 
without  turning  into  a  weed,  therefore,)  said,  "A  vegetable 
which  has  an  innate  disposition  to  get  into  the  wrong  place," 
she  would  have  greatly  furthered  the  matter  for  us  ;  but  then 
she  perhaps  would  have  felt  herself  to  be  uncharitably  divid- 
ing with  vegetables  her  own  little  evangelical  property  of 
original  sin. 

5.  This,  you  will  find,  nevertheless,  to  be  the  very  essence 
of  weed  character — in  plants,  as  in  men.  If  you  glance 
through  your  botanical  books,  you  will  see  often  added  cer- 
tain names — c  a  troublesome  weed."  It  is  not  its  being  veno- 
mous, or  ugly,  but  its  being  impertinent — thrusting  itself 
where  it  has  no  business,  and  hinders  other  people's  business 
— that  makes  a  weed  of  it.  The  most  accursed  of  all  vege- 
tables, the  one  that  has  destroyed  for  the  present  even 
the  possibilit}^  of  European  civilization,  is  only  called  a  weed 
in  the  slang  of  its  votaries  ;  *  but  in  the  finest  and  truest 
English  we  call  so  the  plant  which  has  come  to  us  by  chance 
from  the  same  country,  the  type  of  mere  senseless  prolific 
activity,  the  American  water-plant,  choking  our  streams  till 
the  very  fish  that  leap  out  of  them  cannot  fall  back,  but  die  on 
the  clogged  surface  ;  and  indeed,  for  this  unrestrainable,  un- 
conquerable insolence  of  uselessness,  what  name  can  be 
enough  dishonourable  ? 

6.  I  pass  to  vegetation  of  nobler  rank. 

You  remember,  I  was  obliged  in  the  last  chapter  to  leave 
my  poppy,  for  the  present,  without  an  English  specific  name, 
because  I  don't  like  Gerarde's  6  corn-rose/  and  can't  yet  think 
of  another.  Nevertheless,  I  would  have  used  Gerarde's  name, 
if  the  corn-rose  were  as  much  a  rose  as  the  corn-flag  is  a 
flag.  But  it  isn't.  The  rose  and  lily  have  quite  different  re- 
lations to  the  corn.  The  lily  is  grass  in  loveliness,  as  the  corn 
is  grass  in  use  ;  and  both  grow  together  in  peace — gladiolus 
in  the  wheat,  and  narcissus  in  the  pasture.    But  the  rose  is  of 

*  And  I  have  too  harshly  called  our  English  Vines,  *  wicked  weeds  of 
Kent,' in  Fors  Clavigera,  xxvii.,  vol.  i  ,  p.  377.  Much  may  be  said  for 
Ale.,  when  we  brew  it  for  our  people  honestlj> 


THE  PARABLE  OF  J0A8R. 


79 


another  and  higher  order  than  the  corn,  and  you  never  saw  a 
cornfield  overrun  with  sweetbrier  or  apple-blossom. 

They  have  no  mind,  they,  to  get  into  the  wrong  place. 

What  is  it,  then,  this  temper  in  some  plants — malicious  as  it 
seems — intrusive,  at  all  events,  or  erring, — which  brings  them 
out  of  their  places — thrusts  them  where  they  thwart  us  and 
offend? 

7.  Primarily,  it  is  mere  hardihood  and  coarseness  of  make. 
A  plant  that  can  live  anywhere,  will  often  live  where  it  is  not 
wanted.  But  the  delicate  and  tender  ones  keep  at  home.  You 
have  no  trouble  in  '  keeping  down  *  the  spring  gentian.  It 
rejoices  in  its  own  Alpine  home,  and  makes  the  earth  as  like 
heaven  as  it  can,  but  yields  as  softly  as  the  air,  if  you  want  it 
to  give  place.  Here  in  England,  it  will  only  grow  on  the 
loneliest  moors,  above  the  high  force  of  Tees  ;  its  Latin  name, 
for  us  (I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once)  is  to  be  'Lucia  verna 
and  its  English  one,  Lucy  of  Teesdale. 

8.  But  a  plant  may  be  hardy,  and  coarse  of  make,  and  able 
to  live  anywhere,  and  yet  be  no  weed.  The  coltsfoot,  so  far  as 
I  know,  is  the  first  of  large-leaved  plants  to  grow  afresh  on 
ground  that  has  been  disturbed  :  fall  of  Alpine  debris,  ruin  of 
railroad  embankment,  waste  of  drifted  slime  by  flood,  it  seeks 
to  heal  and  redeem  ;  but  it  does  not  offend  us  in  our  gardens, 
nor  impoverish  us  in  our  fields. 

Nevertheless,  mere  coarseness  of  structure,  indiscriminate 
hardihood,  is  at  least  a  point  of  some  unworthiness  in  a  plant. 
That  it  should  have  no  choice  of  home,  no  love  of  native  land, 
is  ungentle  ;  much  more  if  such  discrimination  as  it  has,  be 
immodest,  and  incline  it,  seemingly,  to  open  and  much-tra- 
versed places,  where  it  may  be  continually  seen  of  strangers. 

The  tormentilla  gleams  in  showers  along  the  mountain 
turf ;  her  delicate  crosslets  are  separate,  though  constellate,  as 
the  rubied  daisy.  But  the  king-cup — (blessing  be  upon  it 
always  no  less) — crowds  itself  sometimes  into  too  burnished 
flame  of  inevitable  gold.  I  don't  know  if  there  wTas  anything 
in  the  darkness  of  this  last  spring  to  make  it  brighter  in  resist- 
ance ;  but  I  never  saw  any  spaces  of  full  warm  yellow,  in 
natural  colour,  so  intense  as  the  meadows  between  Beading 


80 


PROSERPINA. 


and  the  Thames  ;  nor  did  I  know  perfectly  what  purple  and 
gold  meant,  till  I  saw  a  field  of  park  land  embroidered  a  foot 
deep  with  king-cup  and  clover — while  I  was  correcting  my  last 
notes  on  the  spring  colours  of  the  Royal  Academy — at  Ayles- 
bury. 

9.  And  there  are  two  other  questions  of  extreme  subtlety 
connected  with  this  main  one.  What  shall  we  say  of  the 
plants  whose  entire  destiny  is  parasitic — which  are  not  only 
sometimes,  and  impertinently,  but  always,  and  pertinently, 
out  of  place  ;  not  only  out  of  the  right  place,  but  out  of  any 
place  of  their  own  ?  When  is  mistletoe,  for  instance,  in  the 
right  place,  young  ladies,  think  you?  On  an  apple  tree,  or 
on  a  ceiling  ?  Wlien  is  ivy  in  the  right  place  ? — when  wall- 
flower ?  The  ivy  has  been  torn  down  from  the  towers  of  Ken- 
ilworth  ;  the  weeds  from  the  arches  of  the  Coliseum,  and  from 
the  steps  of  the  Araceli,  irreverently,  vilely,  and  in  vain  ;  but 
how  are  we  to  separate  the  creatures  whose  office  it  is  to  abate 
the  grief  of  ruin  by  their  gentleness, 

"  wafting  wallflower  scents 
From  ont  the  crumbling  ruins  of  fallen  pride, 
And  chambers  of  transgression,  now  forlorn," 

from  those  which  truly  resists  the  toil  of  men,  and  conspire 
against  their  fame  ;  which  are  cunning  to  consume,  and  pro- 
lific to  encumber  ;  and  of  whose  perverse  and  unwelcome 
sowing  we  know,  and  can  say  assuredly,  "  An  enemy  hath 
done  this." 

•  10.  Again.  The  character  of  strength  which  gives  preva- 
lence over  others  to  any  common  plant,  is  more  or  less  con- 
sistently dependent  on  woody  fibre  in  the  leaves  :  giving  them 
strong  ribs  and  great  expanding  extent ;  or  spinous  edges, 
and  wrinkled  or  gathered  extent. 

Get  clearly  into  your  mind  the  nature  of  these  two  con- 
ditions. When  a  leaf  is  to  be  spread  wide,  like  the  Burdock, 
it  is  supported  by  a  framework  of  extending  ribs  like  a  Gothic 
roof.  The  supporting  function  of  these  is  geometrical ;  every 
one  is  constructed  like  the  girders  of  a  bridge,  or  beams  of  a 
floor,  with  all  manner  of  science  in  the  distribution  of  their 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JOASH. 


81 


substance  in  the  section,  for  narrow  and  deep  strength  ;  and 
the  shafts  are  mostly  hollow.  But  when  the  extending  space 
of  a  leaf  is  to  be  enriched  with  fulness  of  folds,  aud  become 
beautiful  in  wrinkles,  this  may  be  done  either  by  pure  undu- 
lation as  of  a  liquid  current  along  the  leaf  edge,  or  by  sharp 
'  drawing ' — or  '  gathering  '  I  believe  ladies  would  call  it — and 
stitching  of  the  edges  together.  And  this  stitching  together, 
if  to  be  done  very  strongly,  is  done  round  a  bit  of  stick,  as  a 
sail  is  reefed  round  a  mast ;  and  this  bit  of  stick  needs  to  be 
compactly,  not  geometrically  strong  ;  its  function  is  essentially 
that  of  starch, — not  to  hold  the  leaf  up  off  the  ground  against 
gravity  ;  but  to  stick  the  edges  out,  stiffly,  in  a  crimped  frill. 
And  in  beautiful  work  of  this  kind,  which  we  are  meant  to 
study,  the  stays  of  the  leaf — or  stay-bones — are  finished  off 
very  sharply  and  exquisitely  at  the  points  ;  and  indeed  so 
much  so,  that  they  "prick  our  fingers  when  we  touch  them  ; 
for  they  are  not  at  ail  meant  to  be  touched,  but  admired. 

11.  To  be  admired, — with  qualification,  indeed,  always,  but 
with  extreme  respect  for  their  endurance  and  orderliness. 
Among  flowers  that  pass  away,  and  leaves  that  shake  as  with 
ague,  or  shrink  like  bad  cloth, — these,  in  their  sturdy  growth 
and  enduring  life,  we  are  bound  to  honour  ;  and,  under  the 
green  holly,  remember  how  much  softer  friendship  was  failing, 
and  how  much  of  other  loving,  folly.  And  yet — you  are  not 
to  confuse  the  thistle  with  the  cedar  that  is  in  Lebanon  ;  nor 
to  forget — if  the  spinous  nature  of  it  become  too  cruel  to 
provoke  and  offend — the  parable  of  Joash  to  Amaziah,  and  its 
fulfilment :  "  There  passed  by  a  wild  beast  that  was  in  Leba- 
non, and  trode  down  the  thistle." 

12.  Then,  lastly,  if  this  rudeness  and  insensitiveness  of 
nature  be  gifted  with  no  redeeming  beauty  ;  if  the  boss  of 
the  thistle  lose  its  purple,  and  the  star  of  the  Lion's  tooth, 
its  light ;  and,  much  more,  if  service  be  perverted  as  beauty 
is  lost,  and  the  honied  tube,  and  medicinal  leaf,  change  into 
mere  swollen  emptiness,  and  salt  brown  membrane,  swayed 
in  nerveless  languor  by  the  idle  sea, — at  last  the  separation 
between  the  two  natures  is  as  great  as  between  the  fruitful 
earth  and  fruitless  ocean  ;  and  between  the  living  hands  that 


82 


PROSERPINA. 


tend  the  Garden  of  Herbs  where  Love  is,  and  those  unclasped, 
that  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

%  *  *  Hi  % 

13.  I  had  a  long  bit  in  my  head,  that  I  wanted  to  write, 
about  St.  George  of  the  Seaweed,  but  I've  no  time  to  do  it ; 
and  those  few  words  of  Tennyson's  are  enough,  if  one  thinks 
of  them  :  only  I  see,  in  correcting  press,  that  I've  partly  mis- 
applied the  idea  of  '  gathering '  in  the  leaf  edge.  It  would  be 
more  accurate  to  say  it  was  gathered  at  the  central  rib  ;  but 
there  is  nothing  in  needlework  that  will  represent  the  actual 
excess  by  lateral  growth  at  the  edge,  giving  three  or  four 
inches  of  edge  for  one  of  centre.  But  the.  stiffening  of  the 
fold  by  the  thorn  which  holds  it  out  is  very  like  the  action  of 
a  ship's  spars  on  its  sails  ;  and  absolutely  in  many  cases  like 
that  of  the  spines  in  a  fish's  fin,  passing  into  the  various  con- 
ditions of  serpentine  and  dracontic  crest,  connected  with  all 
the  terrors  and  adversities  of  nature  ;  not  to  be  dealt  with  in 
a  chapter  on  weeds. 

14.  Here  is  a  sketch  of  a  crested  leaf  of  less  adverse  temper, 
which  may  as  well  be  given,  together  with  Plate  HL,  in  this 
number,  these  two  engravings  being  meant  for  examples  of 
two  different  methods  of  drawing,  both  useful  according  to 
character  of  subject.  Plate  HI.  is  sketched  first  with  a  finely- 
pointed  pen,  and  common  ink,  on  white  paper ;  then  washed 
rapidly  with  colour,  and  retouched  with  the  pen  to  give  sharp- 
ness and  completion.  This  method  is  used  because  the  thistle 
leaves  are  full  of  complex  and  sharp  sinuosities,  and  set  with 
intensely  sharp  spines  passing  into  hairs,  which  require  many 
kinds  of  execution  with  the  fine  point  to  imitate  at  all.  In  the 
drawing  there  was  more  look  of  the  bloom  or  woolliness  ov 
the  stems,  but  it  was  useless  to  try  for  this  in  the  mezzotint, 
and  I  desired  Mr.  Allen  to  leave  his  work  at  the  stage  where 
it  expressed  as  much  form  as  I  wanted.  The  leaves  are  of  the 
common  marsh  thistle,  of  which  more  anon  ;  and  the  two 
long  lateral  ones  are  only  two  different  views  of  the  same  leaf, 
while  the  central  figure  is  a  young  leaf  just  opening.  It  beat 
me,  in  its  delicate  bossing,  and  I  had  to  leave  it,  discontent 
edly  enough. 


Plate  III. — Acanthoid  Leaves.   Northern  Attic  Type, 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JOASH. 


83 


Plate  IV.  is  much  better  work,  being  of  an  easier  subject, 
adequately  enough  rendered  by  perfectly  simple  means. 
Here  I  had  only  a  succulent  and  membranous  surface  to  rep- 
resent, with  definite  outlines,  and  merely  undulating  folds  ; 
and  this  is  sufficiently  done  by  a  careful  and  firm  pen  outline 
on  grey  paper,  with  a  slight  wash  of  colour  afterwards,  rein- 
forced in  the  darks;  then  marking  the  lights  with  white. 
This  method  is  classic  and  authoritative,  being  used  by  many 
of  the  greatest  masters,  (by  Holbein  continually  ;)  and  it  is 
much  the  best  which  the  general  student  can  adopt  for  ex- 
pression of  the  action  and  muscular  power  of  plants. 

The  goodness  or  badness  of  such  work  depends  absolutely 
on  the  truth  of  the  single  line.  You  will  find  a  thousand  bo- 
tanical drawings  which  will  give  you  a  delicate  and  deceptive 
resemblance  of  the  leaf,  for  one  that  will  give  you  the  right 
convexity  in  its  backbone,  the  right  perspective  of  its  peaks 
when  they  foreshorten,  or  the  right  relation  of  depth  in  the 
shading  of  its  dimples.  On  which,  in  leaves  as  in  faces,  no 
little  expression  of  temper  depends. 

Meantime  we  have  yet  to  consider  somewhat  more  touch- 
ing that  temper  itself,  in  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  PARABLE  OF  JOTHAM. 

1.  I  do  not  know  if  my  readers  were  checked,  as  I  wished 
them  to  be,  at  least  for  a  moment,  in  the  close  of  the  last 
chapter,  by  my  talking  of  thistles  and  dandelions  changing 
into  seaweed,  by  gradation  of  which,  doubtless,  Mr.  Darwin 
can  furnish  us  with  specious  and  sufficient  instances.  But 
the  two  groups  will  not  be  contemplated  in  our  Oxford  sys- 
tem as  in  any  parental  relations  whatsoever. 

We  shall,  however,  find  some  very  notable  relations  existing 
between  the  two  groups  of  the  wild  flowers  of  dry  land,  which 
represent,  in  the  widest  extent,  and  the  distinctest  opposition, 
the  two  characters  of  material  serviceableness  and  unservice- 


84 


PROSERPINA. 


ableness  ;  the  groups  which  in  our  English  classification  will 
be  easily  remembered  as  those  of  the  Thyme,  and  the 
Daisy. 

The  one,  scented,  as  with  incense — medicinal — and  in  all 
gentle  and  humble  ways,  useful.  The  other,  scentless — help- 
less for  ministry  to  the  body  ;  infinitely  dear  as  the  bringer 
of  light,  ruby,  white  and  gold  ;  the  three  colours  of  the  Day, 
with  no  hue  of  shade  in  it.  Therefore  I  take  it  on  the  coins 
of  St.  George  for  the  symbol  of  the  splendour  or  light  of 
heaven,  which  is  dearest  where  humblest. 

2.  Now  these  great  two  orders — of  which  the  types  are  the 
thyme  and  the  daisy — you  are  to  remember  generally  as  the 
"Herbs'  and  the  'Sunflowers.'  You  are  not  to  call  them 
Lipped  flowers,  nor  Composed  flowers  ;  because  the  first  is  a 
vulgar  term  ;  for  when  you  once  come  to  be  able  to  draw  a 
lip,  or,  in  noble  duty,  to  kiss  one,  you  will  know  that  no  other 
flower  in  earth  is  like  that :  and  the  second  is  an  indefinite 
term  ;  for  a  foxglove  is  as  much  a  '  composed '  flower  as  a 
daisy ;  but  it  is  composed  in  the  shape  of  a  spire,  instead  of 
the  shape  of  the  sun.  And  again  a  thistle,  which  common 
botany  calls  a  composed  flower,  as  well  as  a  daisy,  is  com- 
posed in  quite  another  shape,  being  on  the  whole,  bossy  in- 
stead of  flat ;  and  of  another  temper,  or  composition  of  mind, 
also,  being  connected  in  that  respect  with  butterburs,  and  a 
vast  company  of  rough,  knotty,  half-black  or  brown,  and  gen- 
erally unluminous — flowers  I  can  scarcely  call  them — and 
weeds  I  will  not, — creatures,  at  all  events,  in  nowise  to  be 
gathered  under  the  general  name  '  Composed,'  with  the  stars 
that  crown  Chaucer's  Alcestis,  when  she  returns  to  the  day 
from  the  dead. 

But  the  wilder  and  stronger  blossoms  of  the  Hawk's-eye— 
again  you  see  I  refuse  for  them  the  word  weed  ; — and  the 
waste-loving  Chicory,  which  the  Venetians  call  "  Sponsa  solis,'j 
are  all  to  be  held  in  one  class  with  the  Sunflowers  ;  but  dedi* 
cate, — the  daisy  to  Alcestis  alone  ;  others  to  Clytia,  or  the 
Physician  Apollo  himself  ;  but  I  can't  follow  their  mythology 
yet  awhile. 

S.  Now  in  these  two  families  you  have  typically  Use  op 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JOT II AM. 


85 


posed  to  Beauty  in  wildness  ;  it  is  their  wildness  which  is  theii 
virtue  ; — that  the  thyme  is  sweet  where  it  is  unth ought  of, 
and  the  daisies  red,  where  the  foot  despises  them  :  while,  in 
other  orders,  wildness  is  their  crime, — "  Wherefore,  when  I 
looked  that  it  should  bring  forth  grapes,  brought  it  forth  wild 
grapes  ?  "  But  in  all  of  them  you  must  distinguish  between 
the  pure  wildness  of  flowers  and  their  distress.  It  may  not 
be  our  duty  to  tame  them  ;  but  it  must  be,  to  relieve. 

4.  It  chanced,  as  I  was  arranging  the  course  of  these  two 
chapters,  that  I  had  examples  given  me  of  distressed  and 
happy  wildness,  in  immediate  contrast.  The  first,  I  grieve  to 
say,  was  in  a  bit  of  my  own  brushwood,  left  uncared-for  evi- 
dently many  a  year  before  it  became  mine.  I  had  to  cut  my 
way  into  it  through  a  mass  of  thorny  ruin  ;  black,  birds-nest 
like,  entanglement  of  brittle  spray  round  twisted  stems  of  ill- 
grown  birches  strangling  each  other,  and  changing  half  into 
roots  among  the  rock  clefts  ;  knotted  stumps  of  never-blos- 
soming blackthorn,  and  choked  stragglings  of  holly,  all  laced 
and  twisted  and  tethered  round  with  an  untouchable,  almost 
unhewable,  thatch,  a  foot  thick,  of  dead  bramble  and  rose, 
laid  over  rotten  ground  through  which  the  water  soaked 
ceaselessly,  undermining  it  into  merely  unctuous  clods  and 
clots,  knitted  together  by  mossy  sponge.  It  was  all  Nature's 
free  doing !  she  had  had  her  way  with  it  to  the  uttermost ; 
and  clearly  needed  human  help  and  interference  in  her  busi- 
ness ;  and  yet  there  was  not  one  plant  in  the  whole  ruinous 
and  deathful  riot  of  the  place,  whose  nature  was  not  in  itself 
wholesome  and  lovely  ;  but  all  lost  for  want  of  discipline. 

5.  The  other  piece  of  wild  growth  was  among  the  fallen 
blocks  of  limestone  under  Malham  Cove.  Sheltered  by  the 
cliff  above  from  stress  of  wind,  the  ash  and  hazel  wood  spring 
there  in  a  fair  and  perfect  freedom,  without  a  diseased  bough, 
or  an  unwholesome  shade.  I  do  not  know  why  mine  is  all 
encumbered  with  overgrowth,  and  this  so  lovely  that  scarce  a 
branch  could  be  gathered  but  with  injury  ; — while  under- 
neath, the  oxalis,  and  the  two  smallest  geraniums  (Lucidum 
and  Herb-Robert)  and  the  mossy  saxifrage,  and  the  cross- 
leaved  bed-straw,  and  the  white  pansy,  wrought  themselves 


86 


PROSERPINA. 


into  wreaths  among  the  fallen  crags,  in  which  every  leaf  re- 
joiced, and  was  at  rest. 

6.  Now  between  these  two  states  of  equally  natural  growth, 
the  point  of  difference  that  forced  itself  on  me  (and  practically 
enough,  in  the  work  I  had  in  my  own  wood),  was  not  so  much 
the  withering  and  waste  of  the  one,  and  the  life  of  the  other, 
as  the  thorniness  and  cruelty  of  the  one,  and  the  softness  of 
the  other.  In  Malham  Cove,  the  stones  of  the  brook  were 
softer  with  moss  than  any  silken  pillow — the  crowded  oxalis 
leaves  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  were  not  felt 
— the  cloven  leaves  of  the  Herb-Robert  and  orbed  clusters 
of  its  companion  overflowed  every  rent  in  the  rude  crags 
with  living  balm  ;  there  was  scarcely  a  place  left  by  the  ten- 
derness of  the  happy  things,  where  one  might  not  lay  down 
one's  forehead  on  their  warm  softness,  and  sleep.  But  in  the 
wTaste  and  distressed  ground,  the  distress  had  changed  itself 
to  cruelty.  The  leaves  had  all  perished,  and  the  bending 
saplings,  and  the  wood  of  trust  ; — but  the  thorns  were  there, 
immortal,  and  the  gnarled  and  sapless  roots,  and  the  dusty 
treacheries  of  decay. 

7.  Of  which  things  you  will  find  it  good  to  consider  also 
otherwise  than  botanically.  For  all  these  lower  organisms 
suffer  and  perish,  or  are  gladdened  and  flourish,  under  condi- 
tions which  are  in  utter  precision  symbolical,  and  in  utter 
fidelity  representative,  of  the  conditions  which  induce  adver- 
sity and  prosperity  in  the  kingdoms  of  men  :  and  the  Eternal 
Demeter, — Mother,  and  Judge, — brings  forth,  as  the  herb 
yielding  seed,  so  also  the  thorn  and  the  thistle,  not  to  herself, 
but  to  thee. 

8.  You  have  read  the  words  of  the  great  Law  often  enough  ; 
■ — have  you  ever  thought  enough  of  them  to  know  the  differ- 
ence between  these  twro  appointed  means  of  Distress?  The 
first,  the  Thorn,  is  the  type  of  distress  canned  by  crime,  chang- 
ing the  soft  and  breathing  leaf  into  inflexible  and  wounding 
st  ubbornness.  The  second  is  the  distress  appointed  to  be  the 
means  and  herald  of  good, — Thou  shaltsee  the  stubborn  this- 
tle bursting,  into  glossy  purple,  which  outredden,  all  voluptu- 
ous garden  roses. 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JO  TEAM. 


87 


9.  It  is  strange  that,  after  much  hunting,  I  cannot  find  au- 
thentic note  of  the  day  when  Scotland  took  the  thistle  for  her 
emblem  ;  and  I  have  no  space  (in  this  chapter  at  least)  for 
tradition  ;  but,  with  whatever  lightness  of  construing  we  may 
receive  the  symbol,  it  is  actually  the  truest  that  could  have 
been  found,  for  some  conditions  of  the  Scottish  mind.  There 
is  no  flower  which  the  Proserpina  of  our  Northern  Sicily 
cherishes  more  dearly :  and  scarcely  any  of  us  recognize 
enough  the  beautiful  power  of  its  close-set  stars,  and  rooted 
radiance  of  ground  leaves  ;  yet  the  stubbornness  and  ungrace- 
ful rectitude  of  its  stem,  and  the  besetting  of  its  wholesome 
substance  with  that  fringe  of  offence,  and  the  forwardness  of 
it,  and  dominance, — I  fear  to  lacess  some  of  my  dearest 
friends  if  I  went  on  : — let  them  rather,  with  Bailie  Jarvie's 
true  conscience,*  take  their  Scott  from  the  inner  shelf  in  their 
heart's  library  which  all  true  Scotsmen  give  him,  and  trace, 
with  the  swift  reading  of  memory,  the  characters  of  Fergus 
M'lvor,  Hector  M'Intyre,  Mause  Headrigg,  Alison  Wilson, 
Richie  Moniplies,  and  Andrew  Fairservice  ;  and  then  say,  if 
the  faults  of  all  these,  drawn  as  they  are  with  a  precision  of 
touch  like  a  Corinthian  sculptor's  of  the  acanthus  leaf,  can  be 
found  in  anything  like  the  same  strength  in  other  races,  or  if 
so  stubbornly  folded  and  starched  moni-plies  of  irritating 
kindliness,  selfish  friendliness,  lowly  conceit,  and  intolerable 
fidelity,  are  native  to  any  other  spot  of  the  wild  earth  of  the 
habitable  globe. 

10.  Will  you  note  also — for  this  is  of  extreme  interest — 
that  these  essential  faults  are  all  mean  faults  ; — what  we  may 
call  ground-growing  faults ;  conditions  of  semi-education, 

*  Has  my  reader  ever  thought, — I  never  did  till  this  moment, — now 
it  perfects  the  exquisite  character  which  Scott  himself  loved,  as  he  in- 
vented, till  he  changed  the  form  of  the  novel,  that  his  habitual  inter- 
jection should  be  this  word ; — not  but  that  the  oath,  by  conscience,  was 
happily  still  remaining  then  in  Scotland,  taking  the  place  of  the  me* 
diaeval  '  by  St.  Andrew,'  we  in  England,  long  before  the  Scot,  having 
lost  all  sense  of  the  Puritanical  appeal  to  private  conscience,  as  of  the 
Catholic  oath,  *  by  St.  George  ;  '  and  our  uncanonized  '  by  George  '  in 
sonorous  rudeness,  ratifying,  not  now  our  common  conscience,  but  our 
individual  opinion. 


88 


PROSERPINA. 


of  hardly-treated  homelife,  or  of  coarsely-minded  and  wander- 
ing  prosperity.  How  literally  may  we  go  back  from  the  liv- 
ing soul  symbolized,  to  the  strangely  accurate  earthly  symbol, 
in  the  prickly  weed.  For  if,  with  its  bravery  of  endurance, 
and  carelessness  in  choice  of  home,  we  find  also  definite 
faculty  and  habit  of  migration,  volant  mechanism  for  choice- 
less  journey,  not  divinely  directed  in  pilgrimage  to  known 
shrines  ;  but  carried  at  the  wind's  will  by  a  Spirit  which 
listeth  not — it  will  go  hard  but  that  the  plant  shall  become, 
if  not  dreaded,  at  least  despised  ;  and,  in  its  wandering  and 
reckless  splendour,  disgrace  the  garden  of  the  sluggard,  and 
possess  the  inheritance  of  the  prodigal :  until  even  its  own 
nature  seems  contrary  to  good,  and  the  invocation  of  the  just 
man  be  made  to  it  as  the  executor  of  Judgment,  "  Let  thistles 
grow  instead  of  wheat,  and  cockle  instead  of  barley." 

11.  Yet  to  be  despised — either  for  men  or  flowers — may  be 
no  ill-fortune;  the  real  ill-fortune  is  only  to  be  despicable. ; 
These  faults  of  human  character,  wherever  found,  observe, 
belong  to  it  as  ill-trained — incomplete  ;  confirm  themselves 
only  in  the  vulgar.  There  is  no  base  pertinacity,  no  over- 
weening conceit,  in  the  Black  Douglas,  or  Claverhouse,  or 
Montrose  ;  in  these  we  find  the  pure  Scottish  temper,  of 
heroic  endurance  and  royal  pride ;  but,  when,  in  the  pay,  and 
not  deceived,  but  purchased,  idolatry  of  Mammon,  the  Scot- 
tish persistence  and  pride  become  knit  and  vested  in  the 
spleuchan,  and  your  stiff  Covenanter  makes  his  covenant 
with  Death,  and  your  Old  Mortality  deciphers  only  the  sense- 
less legends  of  the  eternal  gravestone, — you  get  your  weed, 
earth  grown,  in  bitter  verity,  and  earth-devastating,  in  bitter 
strength. 

12.  I  have  told  you,  elsewhere,  we  are  always  first  to  study 
national  character  in  the  highest  and  purest  examples.  But 
if  our  knowledge  is  to  be  complete,  we  have  to  study  also  the 
special  diseases  of  national  character.  And  in  exact  opposi- 
tion to  the  most  solemn  virtue  of  Scotland,  the  domestic  truth 
and  tenderness  breathed  in  all  Scottish  song,  you  have  this 
special  disease  and  mortal  cancer,  this  woody-fibriness,  literally, 
of  temper  and  thought :  the  consummation  of  which  into  pure 


THE  PARABLE  OF  JO  TEAM. 


89 


lignite,  or  rather  black  Devil's  charcoal — the  sap  of  the  birks 
of  Aberfeldy  become  cinder,  and  the  blessed  juices  of  them, 
deadly  gas, — you  may  know  in  its  pure  blackness  best  in  the 
work  of  the  greatest  of  these  ground-growing  Scotchmen, 
Adam  Smith. 

13.  No  man  of  like  capacity,  I  believe,  born  of  any  other 
nation,  could  have  deliberately,  and  with  no  momentary 
shadow  of  suspicion  or  question,  formalized  the  spinous  and 
monstrous  fallacy  that  human  commerce  and  policy  are  natur- 
ally founded  on  the  desire  of  every  man  to  possess  his  neigh- 
bour's goods. 

This  is  the  'release  unto  us  Barabbas,'  with  a  witness ;  and 
the  deliberate  systematization  of  that  cry,  and  choice,  for 
perpetual  repetition  and  fulfilment  in  Christian  statesmanship, 
has  been,  with  the  strange  precision  of  natural  symbolism 
and  retribution,  signed,  (as  of  old,  by  strewing  of  ashes  on 
Kidron,)  by  strewing  of  ashes  on  the  brooks  of  Scotland  ; 
waters  once  of  life,  health,  music,  and  divine  tradition  ;  but 
to  whose  festering  scum  you  may  now  set  fire  with  a  candle  ; 
and  of  which,  round  the  once  excelling  palace  of  Scotland, 
modern  sanitary  science  is  now  helplessly  contending  with 
the  poisonous  exhalations. 

14.  I  gave  this  chapter  its  heading,  because  I  had  it  in  my 
mind  to  work  out  the  meaning  of  the  fable  in  the  ninth  chap- 
ter of  Judges,  from  what  I  had  seen  on  that  thorny  ground 
of  mine,  where  the  bramble  was  king  over  all  the  trees  of  the 
wood.  But  the  thoughts  are  gone  from  me  now  ;  and  as  I 
re-read  the  chapter  of  Judges, — now,  except  in  my  memory, 
unread,  as  it  chances,  for  many  a  year, — the  sadness  of  that 
story  of  Gideon  fastens  on  me,  and  silences  me.  This  the  end 
of  his  angel  visions,  and  dream-led  victories,  the  slaughter  of  all 
his  sons  but  this  youngest,* — and  he  never  again  heard  of  in 
Israel ! 

You  Scottish  children  of  the  Kock,  taught  through  all  your 
once  pastoral  and  noble  lives  by  many  a  sweet  miracle  of  dew 
on  fleece  and  ground, — once  servants  of  mighty  kings,  and 

*  '  Jotliam,'  *  Sum  perfectio  eorum,'  or  '  Consummatio  ecrum.'  (In- 
terpretation of  name  in  V ulgate  index  ) 


90 


PROSERPINA. 


keepers  of  sacred  covenant ;  have  you  indeed  dealt  truly  with 
your  warrior  kings,  and  prophet  saints,  or  are  these  ruins  of 
their  homes,  and  shrines,  dark  with  the  fire  that  fell  from  the 
curse  of  Jerubbaal? 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

THE  STEM. 

1.  As  I  read  over  again,  with  a  fresh  mind,  the  last  chapter, 
I  am  struck  by  the  opposition  of  states  which  seem  best  to  fit 
a  weed  for  a  weed's  work, — stubbornness,  namely,  and  flaccid- 
ity.  On  the  one  hand,  a  sternness  and  a  coarseness  of  struct- 
ure which  changes  its  stem  into  a  stake,  and  its  leaf  into  a  spine  ; 
on  the  other,  an  utter  flaccidity  and  ventosity  of  structure, 
which  changes  its  stem  into  a  riband,  and  its  leaf  into  a  bubble. 
And  before  we  go  farther — for  we  are  not  yet  at  the  end  of 
our  study  of  these  obnoxious  things — we  had  better  complete 
an  examination  of  the  parts  of  a  plant  in  general,  by  ascertain- 
ing what  a  Stem  proper  is  ;  and  what  makes  it  stiffer,  or  hollo w- 
er,  than  we  like  it ; — how,  to  wit,  the  gracious  and  generous 
strength  of  ash  differs  from  the  spinous  obstinacy  of  black- 
thorn,— and  how  the  geometric  and  enduring  hollowness  of 
a  stalk  of  wheat  differs  from  the  soft  fulness  of  that  of  a  mush- 
room. To  which  end,  I  will  take  up  a  piece  of  study,  not  of 
black,  but  white,  thorn,  written  last  spring. 

2.  I  suppose  there  is  no  question  but  that  all  nice  people 
like  hawthorn  blossom. 

I  want,  if  I  can,  to  find  out  to-day,  25th  May,  1875,  what  it 
is  we  like  it  so  much  for  :  holding  these  two  branches  of  it  in 
my  hand — one  full  out,  the  other  in  youth.  This  full  one  is 
a  mere  mass  of  symmetrically  balanced — snow,  one  was  going 
vaguely  to  write,  in  the  first  impulse.  But  it  is  nothing  of 
the  sort.  White, — yes,  in  a  high  degree  ;  and  pure,  totally  ; 
but  not  at  all  dazzling  in  the  white,  nor  pure  in  an  insultingly 
rivalless  manner,  as  snow  would  be  ;  yet  pure  somehow,  cer- 
tainly ;  and  white,  absolutely,  in  spite  of  what  might  be  thought 
failure, : — imperfection — nay,  even  distress  and  loss  in  it.  For 


THE  STEM. 


91 


every  little  rose  of  it  lias  a  green  darkness  in  the  centre — not 
even  a  pretty  green,  but  a  faded,  yellowish,  glutinous,  un- 
accomplished green  ;  and  round  that,  all  over  the  surface  of 
the  blossom,  whose  shell-like  petals  are  themselves  deep  sunk, 
with  grey  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  them — all  above  this  al- 
ready subdued  brightness,  are  strewn  the  dark  points  of  the 
dead  stamens — manifest  more  and  more,  the  longer  one  looks, 
as  a  kind  of  grey  sand,  sprinkled  without  sparing  over  what 
looked  at  first  unspotted  light.  And  in  all  the  ways  of  it  the 
lovely  thing  is  more  like  the  spring  frock  of  some  prudent  lit- 
tle maid  of  fourteen,  than  a  flower ;— ^froek  with  some  little 
spotty  pattern  on  it  to  keep  it  from  showing  an  unintended 
and  inadvertent  spot, — if  Fate  should  ever  inflict  such  a  thing ! 
Undeveloped,  thinks  Mr.  Darwin, — the  poor  short-coming, 
ill-blanched  thorn  blossom — going  to  be  a  Eose,  some  day 
soon  ;  and,  what  next? — who  knows  ? — perhaps  a  Paeony  ! 

3.  Then  this  next  branch,  in  dawn  and  delight  of  youth,  set 
with  opening  clusters  of  yet  numerable  blossom,  four,  and 
five,  and  seven,  edged,  and  islanded,  and  ended,  by  the  sharp 
leaves  of  freshest  green,  deepened  under  the  flowers,  and  stud- 
ded round  with  bosses,  better  than  pearl  beads  of  St.  Agnes' 
rosary, — folded  over  and  over,  with  the  edges  of  their  little 
leaves  pouting,  as  the  very  softest  waves  do  on  flat  sand  where 
one  meets  another ;  then  opening  just  enough  to  show  the 
violet  colour  within — which  yet  isn't  violet  colour,  nor  even 
"  meno  che  le  rose,"  but  a  different  colour  from  every  other 
lilac  that  one  ever  saw  ; — faint  and  faded  even  before  it  sees 
light,  as  the  filmy  cup  opens  over  the  depth  of  it,  then  broken 
into  purple  motes  of  tired  bloom,  fading  into  darkness,  as  the 
cup  extends  into  the  perfect  rose. 

This,  with  all  its  sweet  change  that  one  would  so  fain  stay,  and 
soft  effulgence  of  bud  into  softly  falling  flower,  one  has  watched 
— how  often  ;  but  always  with  the  feeling  that  the  blossoms 
are  thrown  over  the  green  depth  like  white  clouds — never  with 
any  idea  of  so  much  as  asking  what  holds  the  clouds  there. 
Have  each  of  the  innumerable  blossoms  a  separate  stalk  ?  and, 
if  so,  how  is  it  that  one  never  thinks  of  the  stalk,  as  one  does 
with  currants? 


92 


PROSERPINA. 


4.  Turn  the  side  of  the  branch  to  you  ; — Nature  never  meant 
you  to  see  it  so  ;  but  now  it  is  all  stalk  below,  and  stamens 
above, — the  petals  nothing,  the  stalks  all  tiny  trees,  always 
dividing  their  branches  mainly  into  three — one  in  the  centre 
short,  and  the  two  lateral,  long,  with  an  intermediate  extremely 
long  one,  if  needed,  to  fill  a  gap,  so  contriving  that  the  flow- 
ers shall  all  be  nearly  at  the  same  level,  or  at  least  surface  of 
ball,  like  a  guelder  rose.  But  the  cunning  with  which  the 
tree  conceals  its  structure  till  the  blossom  is  fallen,  and  then 
■ — for  a  little  while,  we  had  best  look  no  more  at  it,  for  it  is 
all  like  grape-stalks  with  no  grapes. 

These,  whether  carrying  hawthorn  blossom  and  haw,  or 
grape  blossom  and  grape,  or  peach  blossom  and  peach,  you 
will  simply  call  the  c  stalk,'  whether  of  flower  or  fruit.  A  '  stalk  ; 
is  essentially  round,  like  a  pillar  ;  and  has,  for  the  most  part, 
the  power  of  first  developing,  and  then  shaking  off,  flower 
and  fruit  from  its  extremities.  You  can  pull  the  peach  from 
its  stalk,  the  cherry,  the  grape.  Always  at  some  time  of  its 
existence,  the  flower-stalk  lets  fall  something  of  what  it  sus- 
tained, petal  or  seed. 

In  late  Latin  it  is  called  'petiolus,'  the  little  foot ;  because 
the  expanding  piece  that  holds  the  grape,  or  olive,  is  a  little 
like  an  animals  foot.  Modern  botanists  have  misapplied  the 
word  to  the  leaf-stalk,  which  has  no  resemblance  to  a  foot  at 
all.  We  must  keep  the  word  to  its  proper  meaning,  and, 
when  we  want  to  write  Latin,  call  it  '  petiolus  ; '  when  we  want 
to  write  English,  call  it  '  stalk,'  meaning  always  fruit  or  flower 
stalk. 

I  cannot  find  when  the  word  '  stalk '  first  appears  in  Eng- 
lish :— its  derivation  will  be  given  presently. 

5.  Gather  next  a  hawthorn  leaf.  That  also  has  a  stalk  ;  but 
you  can't  shake  the  leaf  off  it.  It,  and  the  leaf,  are  essentially 
one  ;  for  the  sustaining  fibre  runs  up  into  every  ripple  or  jag 
of  the  leaf's  edge  :  and  its  section  is  different  from  that  of  the 
flower-stalk  ;  it  is  no  more  round,  but  has  an  upper  and  under 
surface,  quite  different  from  each  other.  It  will  be  better, 
however,  to  take  a  larger  leaf  to  examine  this  structure  in. 
Cabbage,  cauliflower,  or  rhubarb,  would  any  of  them  be  good, 


THE  STEM. 


93 


but  don't  grow  wild  in  the  luxuriance  I  want.  So,  if  you 
please,  we  will  take  a  leaf  of  burdock,  (Arctium  Lappa,)  the 
principal  business  of  that  plant  being  clearly  to  grow  leaves 
wherewith  to  adorn  fore-grounds.* 

6.  The  outline  of  it  in  Sowerby  is  not  an  intelligent  one, 
and  I  have  not  time  to 

draw  it  but  in  the  rudest 
way  myself  ;  Fig.  13,  a ; 
with  perspectives  of  the 
elementary  form  below, 
b,  c,  and  d.  By  help  of 
which,  if  you  will  con- 
struct a  burdock  leaf  in 
paper,  my  rude  outline 
(a)  may  tell  the  rest  of 
what  I  want  you  to  see. 

Take  a  sheet  of  stout 
note  paper,  Fig.  14,  A, 
double  it  sharply  down 
the  centre,  by  the  dotted 
line,  then  give  it  the  two 
cuts  at  a  and  b,  and 
double  those  pieces 
sharply  back,  as  at  B  ; 
then,  opening  them 
again,  cut  the  whole  into 
the  form  C  ;  and  then, 
pulling  up  the  corners  c 
d,  stitch  them  together 
with  a  loose  thread  so 
that  the  points  c  and  d 
shall  be  within  half  an  inch  of  each  other ;  and  you  will  have 
a  kind  of  triangular  scoop,  or  shovel,  with  a  stem,  by  which 
you  can  sufficiently  hold  it,  D. 

7.  And  from  this  easily  constructed  and  tenable  model,  you 
may  learn  at  once  these  following  main  facts  about  all  leaves. 

*  If  you  will  look  at  the  engraving,  in  the  England  and  Wales  series, 
of  Turner's  Oakhampton,  you  will  see  its  use. 


Fig.  13. 


94 


PROSERPINA. 


[I]  That  they  are  not  flat,  but,  however  slightly,  always 
hollowed  into  craters,  or  raised  into  hills,  in  one  or  another 
direction  ;  so  that  any  drawable  outline  of  them  does  not  in 
the  least  represent  the  real  extent  of  their  surfaces  ;  and  until 
you  know  how  to  draw  a  cup,  or  a  mountain,  rightly,  you  have 
no  chance  of  drawing  a  leaf.  My  simple  artist  readers  of  long 
ago,  when  I  told  them  to  draw  leaves,  thought  they  could  do 
them  by  the  boughf  ul,  whenever  they  liked.  Alas,  except  by 
old  WilliamHunt,  and  Burne  Jones,  I've  not  seen  a  leaf  painted, 
since  those  burdocks  of  Turner's  ;  far  less  sculptured — though 


a  7> 


D 

Fig.  14. 


one  would  think  at  first  that  was  easier  !  Of  which  we  shall  have 
talk  elsewhere  ;  here  I  must  go  on  to  note  fact  number  two, 
concerning  leaves. 

8.  [IX]  The  strength  of  their  supporting  stem  consists  not 
merely  in  the  gathering  together  of  all  the  fibres,  but  in 
gathering  them  essentially  into  the  profile  of  the  letter  V, 
which  you  will  see  your  doubled  paper  stem  has  ;  and  of  which 
you  can  feel  the  strength  and  use,  in  your  hand,  as  you  hold 
it.  Gather  a  common  plantain  leaf,  and  look  at  the  way  it 
puts  its  round  ribs  together  at  the  base,  and  you  will  under- 
stand the  matter  at  once.    The  arrangement  is  modified  and 


THE  STEM. 


95 


disguised  in  every  possible  way,  according  to  the  leaf's  need  : 
in  the  aspen,  the  leaf-stalk  becomes  an  absolute  vertical  plank  ; 
and  in  the  large  trees  is  often  almost  rounded  into  the  like- 
ness of  a  fruit- stalk  ; — but,  in  all,*  the  essential  structure  is 
this  doubled  one  ;  and  in  all,  it  opens  at  the  place  where  the 
leaf  joins  the  main  stem,  into  a  kind  of  cup,  which  holds  next 
year's  bud  in  the  hollow  of  it. 

9.  Now  there  would  be  no  inconvenience  in  your  simply 
getting  into  the  habit  of  calling  the  round  petiol  of  the  fruit 
the  'stalk,'  and  the  contracted  channel  of  the  leaf,  J  leaf-stalk/ 
But  this  way  of  naming  them  would  not  enforce,  nor  fasten 
in  your  mind,  the  difference  between  the  two,  so  well  as  if  you 
have  an  entirely  different  name  for  the  leaf-stalk.  Which  is 
the  more  desirable,  because  the  limiting  character  of  the  leaf, 
botanically,  is — (I  only  learned  this  from  my  botanical  friend 
the  other  day,  just  in  the  very  moment  I  wanted  it,) — that  it 
holds  the  bud  of  the  new  stem  in  its  own  hollow,  but  cannot 
itself  grow  in  the  hollow  of  anything  else  ; — or,  in  botanical 
language,  leaves  are  never  axillary, — don't  grow  in  armpits, 
but  are  themselves  armpits  ;  hollows,  that  is  to  say,  where  they 
spring  from  the  main  stem. 

10.  Now  there  is  already  a  received  and  useful  botanical 
word,  'cyme'  (which  we  shall  want  in  a  little  while,)  derived 
from  the  Greek  Kiyxa,  a  swelling  or  rising  wave,  and  used  to 
express  a  swelling  cluster  of  foamy  blossom.  Connected  with 
that  word,  but  in  a  sort  the  reverse  of  it,  you  have  the  Greek 
'  kv/x/3t7,'  the  hollow  of  a  cup,  or  bowl ;  whence  Kv^paXpy,  a 
cymbal, — that  is  to  say,  a  musical  instrument  owing  its  tone 
to  its  holloivness.  These  words  become  in  Latin,  cymba,  and 
cymbalum  ;  and  I  think  you  will  find  it  entirely  convenient 
and  advantageous  to  call  the  leaf-stalk  distinctively  the  'cymba/ 
retaining  the  mingled  idea  of  cup  and  boat,  with  respect  at 
least  to  the  part  of  it  that  holds  the  bud  ;  and  understanding 
that  it  gathers  itself  into  a  V-shaped,  or  even  narrowly  verti- 
cal, section,  as  a  boat  narrows  to  its  bow,  for  strength  to 
sustain  the  leaf. 

*  General  assertions  of  this  kind  must  always  be  accepted  under  in- 
dulgence,—exceptions  being  made  afterwards. 


96 


PROSERPINA. 


With  this  word  you  may  learn  the  Virgilian  line,  that  shows 
the  final  use  of  iron — or  iron-darkened — ships  : 

"  Et  ferruginea  sabvectat  corpora  cyinba." 
The  "  subvectat  corpora w  will  serve  to  remind  you.  of  the 
office  of  the  leafy  cymba  in  carrying  the  bud  ;  and  make  you 
thankful  that  the  said  leafy  vase  is  not  of  iron  ;  and  is  a  ship 
of  Life  instead  of  Death. 

11.  Already,  not  once,  nor  twice,  I  have  had  to  use  the  word 
'  stem,'  of  the  main  round  branch  from  which  both  stalk  and 
cymba  spring.  This  word  you  had  better  keep  for  all  grow- 
ing, or  advancing,  shoots  of  trees,  whether  from  the  ground, 
or  from  central  trunks  and  branches.  I  regret  that  the  words 
multiply  on  us  ;  but  each  that  I  permit  myself  to  use  has  its 
own  proper  thought  or  idea  to  express,  as  you  will  presently 
perceive  ;  so  that  true  knowledge  multiplies  with  true  words. 

12.  The  '  stem,'  you  are  to  say,  then, when  you  mean  the  ad- 
vancing shoot, — which  lengthens  annually,  while  a  stalk  ends 
every  year  in  a  blossom,  and  a  cymba  in  a  leaf.  A  stem  is  es- 
sentially round,*  square,  or  regularly  polygonal ;  though,  as  a 
cymba  may  become  exceptionally  round,  a  stem  may  become 
exceptionally  flat,  or  even  mimic  the  shape  of  a  leaf.  Indeed 
I  should  have  liked  to  write  "  a  stem  is  essentially  round,  and 
constructively,  on  occasion,  square," — but  it  would  have  been 
too  grand.  The  fact  is,  however,  that  a  stem  is  really  a 
roundly  minded  thing,  throwing  off  its  branches  in  circles  as 
a  trundled  mop  throws  off  drops,  though  it  can  always  order 
the  branches  to  fly  off  in  what  order  it  likes, — two  at  a  time, 
opposite  to  each  other  ;  or  three,  or  five,  in  a  spiral  coil ;  or 
one  here  and  one  there,  on  this  side  and  that ;  but  it  is  always 
twisting,  in  its  own  inner  mind  and  force  ;  hence  it  is  espe- 
cially proper  to  use  the  word  '  stem  9  of  it — o-re/x/xa,  a  twined 
wreath ;  properly,  twined  round  a  staff,  or  sceptre  :  therefore, 
learn  at  once  by  heart  these  lines  in  the  opening  Iliad : 

Xpvffeq)  ava  CK^Trrpcp' " 

And  recollect  that  a  sceptre  is  properly  a  staff  to  lean  upon*; 
and  that  as  a  crown  or  diadem  is  first  a  binding  thing,  a 
*  I  use  '  round'  rather  than  *  cylindrical,'  for  simplicity's  sake. 


Plate  V.— Occult  Spiral  Action.  Waste-Thistle. 


THE  STEM. 


9? 


A  sceptre  9  is  first  a  supporting  thing,  and  it  is  in  its  nobleness,, 
itself  made  of  the  stem  of  a  young  tree.  You  may  just  as 
well  learn  also  this  : 

"  Nal  jua  Tc&e  (rxYjirrpov,  rb  p.\v  ovirore  <pv\\a  Kai  v£ovs 
&v<T€i,  67r€i5^  irpcvra  toul^v  eV  6p€<7<ri  \4\onrev, 
Ou5'  avadT)X'i}(Tsi'    irepl  yap  pd  e  xaA/c^s  eAe;J/e 
&v\\a  T€  Kal  <p\oiov'     vvv  aure  fj.iv  vies  'Axcu&v 
*Ev  iraXdixris  dpopiovui  diKaffTrSxoi,  o'L  Te  de/jaffras 
Jlpbs  Albs  eipvarai'  " 

"  Now,  by  this  sacred  sceptre  hear  me  swear 
Which  never  more  shall  leaves  or  blossoms  bear, 
Which,  severed  from  the  trunk,  (as  I  from  thee,) 
On  the  bare  mountains  left  its  parent  tree  ; 
This  sceptre,  formed  by  tempered  steel  to  prove — 
An  ensign  of  the  delegates  of  Jove, 
From  whom  the  power  of  laws  and  justice  springs 
(Tremendous  oath,  inviolate  to  Kings)." 

13.  The  supporting  power  in  the  tree  itself  is,  I  doubt  not, 
greatly  increased  by  this  spiral  action  ;  •  and  the  fine  instinct 
of  its  being  so,  caused  the  twisted  pillar  to  be  used  in  the 
Lombardic  Gothic, — at  first,  merely  as  a  pleasant  variety  of 
form,  but  at  last  constructively  and  universally,  by  Giotto 
and  all  the  architects  of  his  school.  Not  that  the  spiral  form 
actually  adds  to  the  strength  of  a  Lombardic  pillar,  by  imitat- 
ing contortions  of  wood,  any  more  than  the  fluting  of  a 
Doric  shaft  adds  to  its  strength  by  imitating  the  canalicular 
tion  of  a  reed  ;  but  the  perfect  action  of  the  imagination, 
which  had  adopted  the  encircling  acanthus  for  the  capital, 
adopted  the  twining  stemma  for  the  shaft  ;  the  pure  delight 
of  the  eye  being  the  first  condition  in  either  case  :  and  it  is 
inconceivable  how  much  of  the  pleasure  taken  both  in  orna- 
ment and  in  natural  form  is  founded  elementarily  on  groups 
of  spiral  line.  The  study  in  our  fifth  plate,  of  the  involucre 
of  the  waste-thistle,*  is  as  good  an  example  as  I  can  give  of 
the  more  subtle  and  concealed  conditions  of  this  structure. 

*Carduus  Arvensis.  'Creeping  Thistle,'  in  Sowerby  ;  why,  I  cannot 
conceive,  for  there  is  no  more  creeping  in  it  than  in  a  furzebush.  But 
it  especially  haunts  foul  and  neglected  ground  ;  so  I  keep  the  Latiu 


98 


PROSERPINA. 


14.  Returning  to  our  present  business  of  nomenclature,  we 
find  the  Greek  word,  '  stemma,'  adopted  by  the  Latins,  be- 
coming the  expression  of  a  grQwing  and  hereditary  race  ;  and 
the  branched  tree,  the  natural  type,  among  all  nations,  of 
multiplied  families.  Hence  the  entire  fitness  of  the  word 
for  our  present  purposes ;  as  signifying,  "  a  spiral  shoot  ex- 
tending itself  by  branches.,,  But  since,  unless  it  is  spiral, 
it  is  not  a  stem,  and  unless  it  has  branches,  it  is  not  a  stem, 
we  shall  still  want  another  word  for  the  sustaining  '  sceptre  ' 
of  a  foxglove,  or  cowslip.  Before  determining  that,  however, 
we  must  see  what  need  there  may  be  of  one  familiar  to  our 
ears  until  lately,  although  now,  I  understand,  falling  into 
disuse. 

15.  By  our  definition,  a  stem  is  a  spirally  bent,  essentially 
living  and  growing,  shoot  of  vegetation.  But  the  branch  of 
a  tree,  in  which  many  such  stems  have  their  origin,  is  not,  ex- 
cept in  a  very  subtle  and  partial  way,  spiral  ;  nor,  except  in 
the  shoots  that  spring  from  it,  progressive  forwards  ;  it  only 
receives  increase  of  thickness  at  its  sides.  Much  more,  what 
used  to  be  called  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  in  which  many  branches 
are  united,  has  ceased  to  be,  except  in  mere  tendency  and 
temper,  spiral  ;  and  has  so  far  ceased  from  growing  as  to  be 
often  in  a  state  of  decay  in  its  interior,  while  the  external 
layers  are  still  in  serviceable  strength. 

16.  If,  however,  a  trunk  were  only  to  be  defined  as  an  ar- 
rested stem,  or  a  cluster  of  arrested  stems,  we  might  perhaps 
refuse,  in  scientific  use,  the  popular  word.  But  such  a  defini- 
tion does  not  touch  the  main  idea.  Branches  usually  begin 
to  assert  themselves  at  a  height  above  the  ground  approxi- 
mately fixed  for  each  species  of  tree, — low  in  an  oak,  high  in 
a  stone  pine  ;  but,  in  both,  marked  as  a  point  of  structural 
change  in  the  direction  of  growing  force,  like  the  spring  of  a 

name,  translating  '  Waste -Thistle. '  I  could  not  show  the  variety  of  the 
curves  of  the  involucre  without  enlarging  ;  and  if,  on  this  much  in- 
creased scale,  I  had  tried  to  draw  the  flower,  it  would  have  taken  Mr. 
Allen  and  me  a  good  month's  more  work.  And  I  had  no  more  a  month 
than  a  life,  to  spare  :  so  the  action  only  of  the  spreading  flower  is  indi- 
cated, but  the  involucre  drawn  with  precision. 


THE  STEM. 


99 


vault  from  a  pillar ;  and  as  the  tree  grows  old,  some  of  its 
branches  getting  torn  away  by  winds  or  falling  under  the 
weight  of  their  own  fruit,  or  load  of  snow,  or  by  natural  decay, 
there  remains  literally  a  1  truncated '  mass  of  timber,  still 
bearing  irregular  branches  here  and  there,  but  inevitably  sug- 
gestive of  resemblance  to  a  human  body,  after  the  loss  of 
some  of  its  limbs. 

And  to  prepare  trees  for  their  practical  service,  what  age 
and  storm  only  do  partially,  the  first  rough  process  of  human 
art  does  completely.  The  branches  are  lopped  away,  leaving 
literally  the  £  truncus '  as  the  part  of  the  tree  out  of  which 
log  and  rafter  can  be  cut.  And  in  many  trees,  it  would  ap- 
pear to  be  the  chief  end  of  their  being  to  produce  this  part  of 
their  body  on  a  grand  scale,  and  of  noble  substance  ;  so  that, 
while  in  thinking  of  vegetable  life  without  reference  to  its  use 
to  men  or  animals,  we  should  rightly  say  that  the  essence  of 
it  was  in  leaf  and  flower — not  in  trunk  or  fruit ;  yet  for  the 
sake  of  animals,  we  find  that  some  plants,  like  the  vine,  are 
apparently  meant  chiefly  to  produce  fruit  ;  others,  like 
laurels,  chiefly  to  produce  leaves  ;  others  chiefly  to  produce 
flowers  ;  and  others  to  produce  permanently  serviceable  and 
sculptural  wood  ;  or,  in  some  cases,  merely  picturesque  and 
monumental  masses  of  vegetable  rock,  "intertwisted  fibres 
serpentine," — of  far  nobler  and  more  pathetic  use  in  their 
places,  and  their  enduring  age,  than  ever  they  could  be  for 
material  purpose  in  human  habitation.  For  this  central  mass 
of  the  vegetable  organism,  then,  the  English  word  '  trunk ' 
and  French  '  tronc  -  are  always  in  accurate  scholarship  to  be 
retained — meaning  the  part  of  a  tree  which  remains  when  its 
branches  are  lopped  away. 

17.  We  have  now  got  distinct  ideas  of  four  different  kinds 
of  stem,  and  simple  names  for  them  in  Latin  and  English,— 
Petiolus,  Cymba,  Stemma,  and  Truncus  ;  Stalk,  Leaf-stalk, 
Stem,  and  Trunk  ;  and  these  are  all  that  we  shall  commonly 
need.  There  is,  however,  one  more  that  will  be  sometimes  ne- 
cessary, though  it  is  ugly  and  difficult  to  pronounce,  and  must 
be  as  little  used  as  we  can. 

And  here  I  must  ask  you  to  learn  with  me  a  little  piece  of 


100 


PROSERPINA. 


Roman  history.  I  say,  to  learn  with  me,  because  I  don't 
know  any  Roman  history  except  the  two  first  books  of  Livy, 
and  little  bits  here  and  there  of  the  following  six  or  seven. 
I  only  just  know  enough  about  it  to  be  able  to  make  out  the 
bearings  and  meaning  of  any  fact  that  I  now  learn.  The 
greater  number  of  modern  historians  know,  (if  honest  enough 
even  for  that,)  the  facts,  or  something  that  may  possibly  be 
like  the  facts,  but  haven't  the  least  notion  of  the  meaning  of 
them.  So  that,  though  I  have  to  find  out  everything  that  I 
want  in  Smith's  dictionary,  like  any  schoolboy,  I  can  usually 
tell  you  the  significance  of  what  I  so  find,  better  than  perhaps 
even  Mr.  Smith  himself  could. 

18.  In  the  586th  page  of  Mr.  Smith's  volume,  you  have  it 
written  that  '  Calvus,'  bald-head,  was  the  name  of  a  family  of 
the  Licinia  gens  ;  that  the  man  of  whom  we  hear  earliest,  as 
so  named,  was  the  first  plebeian  elected  to  military  tribune- 
ship  in  b.c.  400  ;  and  that  the  fourth  of  whom  we  hear,  was 
surnamed  c  Stolo,'  because  he  was  so  particular  in  pruning 
away  the  Stolons  (stolones),  or  useless  young  shoots,  of  his 
vines. 

We  must  keep  this  word  c  stolon,'  therefore,  for  these  young 
suckers  springing  from  an  old  root.  Its  derivation  is  uncer- 
tain ;  but  the  main  idea  meant  by  it  is  one  of  uselesshess, — 
sprouting  without  occasion  or  fruit  ;  and  the  words  {  stolid  us ' 
and  '  stolid '  are  really  its  derivatives,  though  we  have  lost 
their  sense  in  English  by  partly  confusing  them  with  '  solid  ' 
which  they  have  nothing  to  do  with.  A  '  stolid  •  person  is 
essentially  a  '  useless  sucker '  of  society  ;  frequently  very  leafy 
and  graceful,  but  with  no  good  in  him. 

19.  Nevertheless,  I  won't  allow  our  vegetable  £  stolons '  to  be 
despised.  Some  of  quite  the  most  beautiful  forms  of  leafage 
belong  to  them  ; — even  the  foliage  of  the  olive  itself  is  never 
seen  to  the  same  perfection  on  the  upper  branches  as  in  the 
young  ground-rods  in  which  the  dual  groups  of  leaves  crowd 
themselves  in  their  haste  into  clusters  of  three. 

But,  for  our  point  of  Latin  history,  remember  always  that  in 
400  b.c,  just  a  year  before  the  death  of  Socrates  at  Athens,  this 
family  of  Stolid  persons  manifested  themselves  at  Rome, 


THE  STEM. 


101 


shooting  up  from  plebeian  roots  into  places  where  they  had  ' 
no  business  ;  and  preparing  the  way  for  the  degradation  of 
the  entire  Roman  race  under  the  Empire  ;  their  success  be- 
ing owed,  remember  also,  to  the  faults  of 
the  patricians,  for  one  of  the  laws  passed  by 
Calvus  Stolo  was  that  the  Sibylline  books 
should  be  in  custody  of  ten  men,  of  whom 
five  should  be  plebeian,  "  that  no  falsifica- 
tions might  be  introduced  in  favour  of  the 
patricians." 

20.  All  this  time,  however,  we  have  got  no 
name  for  the  prettiest  of  all  stems, — that  of 
annual  flowers  growing  high  from  among 
their  ground  leaves,  like  lilies  of  the  valley, 
and  saxifrages,  and  the  tall  primulas — of 
which  this  pretty  type,  Fig.  15,  was  cut  for 
me  by  Mr.  Burgess  years  ago  ;  admirable  in 
its  light  outline  of  the  f  oamy  globe  of  flowers, 
supported  and  balanced  in  the  meadow 
breezes  on  that  elastic  rod  of  slenderest 
life. 

What  shall  we  call  it  ?  We  had  better 
rest  from  our  study  of  terms  a  little,  and  do 
a  piece  of  needful  classifying,  before  wre  try 
to  name  it. 

21.  My  younger  readers  will  find  it  easy  to  learn,  and  con- 
venient to  remember,  for  a  beginning  of  their  science,  the 
names  of  twelve  great  families  of  cinquef oiled  flowers,*  of 
which  the  first  group  of  three,  is  for  the  most  part  golden,  the 
second,  blue,  the  third,  purple,  and  the  fourth,  red. 

And  their  names,  by  simple  lips,  can  be  pleasantly  said,  or 
sung,  in  this  order,  the  two  first  only  being  a  little  difficult 
to  get  over. 

*  The  florets  gathered  in  the  daisy  are  cinquefoiis,  examined  closely. 
No  system  founded  on  colour  can  be  very  general  or  unexceptionable  : 
but  the  splendid  purples  of  the  pansy,  and  thistle,  which  will  be  made 
one  of  the  lower  composite  groups  under  Margarita,  may  justify  the 
general  assertion  of  this  order's  being  purple. 


102 


PROSERPINA. 


1  2  3  4 

Roof-foil,  L^cy,  Pea,  Pink, 

Rock-foil,  Blue-bell,  Pansy,  Peach, 

Primrose.  Bindweed.         Daisy.  Rose. 

Which  even  in  their  Latin  magniloquence  will  not  be  too  ter- 
rible, namely, — 

12  3  4 

Stella,  Lucia,  Alata,  Clarissa, 

Francesca,       Campanula,      Viola,  Persica, 
Primula.         Convoluta.        Margarita.  Rosa. 

22.  I  do  not  care  much  to  assert  or  debate  my  reasons  for 
the  changes  of  nomenclature  made  in  this  list.  The  most 
gratuitous  is  that  of  'Lucy'  for  6  Gentian,'  because  the  King 
of  Macedon,  from  whom  the  flower  has  been  so  long  named, 
was  by  no  means  a  person  deserving  of  so  consecrated  memory. 
I  conceive  no  excuse  needed  for  rejecting  Caryophyll,  one  of 
the  crudest  and  absurdest  words  ever  coined  by  unscholarly 
men  of  science  ;  or  Papilionacese,  which  is  unen durably  long 
for  pease  ;  and  when  we  are  now  writing  Latin,  in  a  senti- 
mental temper,  and  wish  to  say  that  we  gathered  a  daisy,  we 
shall  not  any  more  be  compelled  to  write  that  we  gathered  a 
'Bellidem  perennem,'  or,  an  'Oculum  Diei.' 

I  take  the  pure  Latin  form,  Margarita,  instead  of  Margar- 
eta,  in  memory  of  Margherita  of  Cortona,  *  as  well  as  of  the 
great  saint :  also  the  tiny  scatterings  and  sparklings  of  the 
daisy  on  the  turf  may  remind  us  of  the  old  use  of  the  word 
'  Margarita?,'  for  the  minute  particles  of  the  Host  sprinkled 
on  the  patina — "  Has  particulas  jAfcptBafe  vocat  Euchologium, 
/xapyapiVas  Liturgia  Chrysostomi."  f  My  young  German  readers 
will,  I  hope,  call  the  flower  Gretschen, — unless  they  would  u]> 
root  the  daisies  of  the  Rhine,  lest  French  girls  should  also 

*  See  Miss  Yonge's  exhaustive  account  of  the  Name,  'History  oi 
Christian  Names,'  vol.  i  ,  p.  265. 

f  (Du  Cange.)  The  word  '  Margarete  '  is  given  as  heraldic  English 
for  pearl,  by  Lady  Juliana  Berners,  in  the  book  of  St.  Albans. 


THE  STEM. 


103 


count  their  love-lots  by  the  Marguerite.  I  must  be  so  ungra- 
cious to  my  fair  young  readers,  however,  as  to  warn  them 
that  this  trial  of  their  lovers  is  a  very  favourable  one,  for,  in 
nine  blossoms  out  of  ten,  the  leaves  of  the  Marguerite  are 
odd,  so  that,  if  they  are  only  gracious  enough  to  begin  with  the 
supposition  that  he  loves  them,  they  must  needs  end  in  the 
conviction  of  it. 

23.  I  am  concerned,  however,  for  the  present,  only  with  my 
first  or  golden  order,  of  which  the  Koof-foil,  or  house-leek,  is 
called  in  present  botany,  Sedum,  '  the  squatter/  because  of  its 
way  of  fastening  itself  down  on  stones,  or  roof,  as  close  as  it 
can  sit.  But  I  think  this.an  ungraceful  notion  of  its  behaviour  ; 
and  as  its  blossoms  are,  of  all  flowers,  the  most  sharply  and 
distinctly  star-shaped,  I  shall  call  it  '  Stella '  (providing  other- 
wise, in  due  time,  for  the  poor  little  duckweeds  ;)  and  the 
common  stonecrop  will  therefore  be  '  Stella  domestical 

The  second  tribe,  (at  present  saxifraga,)  growing  for  the 
most  part  wild  on  rocks,  may,  I  trust,  even  in  Protestant  bot- 
any, be  named  Francesca,  after  St.  Francis  of  Assisi ;  not  only 
for  its  modesty,  and  love  of  mountain  ground,  and  poverty  of 
colour  and  leaf  ;  but  also  because  the  chief  element  of  its  dec- 
oration, seen  close,  will  be  found  in  its  spots,  or  stigmata. 

In  the  nomenclature  of  the  third  order  I  make  no  change. 

24.  Now  all  this  group  of  golden-blossoming  plants  agree 
in  general  character  of  having  a  rich  cluster  of  radical  leaves, 
from  which  they  throw  up  a  single  stalk  bearing  clustered 
blossoms  ;  for  which  stalk,  when  entirely  leafless,  I  intend  al- 
ways to  keep  the  term  '  virgula,'  the  c  little  rod  ' — not  painfully 
caring  about  it,  but  being  able  thus  to  define  it  with  precision, 
if  required.  And  these  are  connected  with  the  stems  of  branch- 
ing shrubs  through  infinite  varieties  of  structure,  in  which  the 
first  steps  of  transition  are  made  by  carrying  the  cluster  of 
radical  leaves  up,  and  letting  them  expire  gradually  from  the 
rising  stem  :  the  changes  of  form  in  the  leaves  as  they  rise 
higher  from  the  ground  being  one  of  quite  the  most  interest- 
ing specific  studies  in  every  plant.  I  had  set  myself  once,  in 
a  bye-study  for  foreground  drawing,  hard  on  this  point  ;  and 
began,  with  Mr.  Burgess,  a  complete  analysis  of  the  foliation 


104 


PROSERPINA. 


of  annual  stems  ;  of  which  Line-studies  II,  m,  and  IV.  are  ex- 
amples ;  reduced  copies,  all,  from  the  beautiful  Flora  Danica. 
But  after  giving  two  whole  lovely  long  summer  days,  under  the 
Giesbach,  to  the  blue  scabious,  ('  Devil's  bit,')  and  getting  in 
that  time,  only  half-way  up  it,  I  gave  in  ;  and  must  leave  the 
work  to  happier  and  younger  souls. 

25.  For  these  flowering  stems,  therefore,  possessing  nearly 
all  the  complex  organization  of  a  tree,  but  not  its  permanence, 
we  will  keep  the  word  '  virga  ; '  and  £  virguia '  for  those  that 
have  no  leaves.  I  believe,  when  we  come  to  the  study  of  leaf- 
order,  it  will  be  best  to  begin  with  these  annual  virgse,  in 
which  the  leaf  has  nothing  to  do  with  preparation  for  a  next 
year's  branch.  And  now  the  remaining  terms  commonly  ap- 
plied to  stems  may  be  for  the  most  part  dispensed  with  ;  but 
several  are  interesting,  and  must  be  examined  before  dis- 
missal. 

26.  Indeed,  in  the  first  place,  the  word  we  have  to  use  so 
often,  £ stalk,'  has  not  been  got  to  the  roots  of,  yet.  It  comes 
from  the  Greek  crrcAe^os,  (stelechos,)  the  ' holding  part'  of  a 
tree,  that  which  is  like  a  handle  to  all  its  branches  ;  '  stock ' 
is  another  form  in  which  it  has  come  down  to  us  :  with  some 
notion  of  its  being  the  mother  of  branches  :  thus,  when  Athe- 
na's olive  was  burnt  by  the  Persians,  two  days  after,  a  shoot  a 
cubit  long  had  sprung  from  the  6  stelechos,'  of  it. 

27.  Secondly.  Few  words  are  more  interesting  to  the  mod- 
ern scholarly  and  professorial  mind  than  £  stipend.'  (I  have 
twice  a  year  at  present  to  consider  whether  I  am  worth  ininej 
gent  with  compliments  from  the  Curators  of  the  University 
chest). — Now,  this  word  comes  from  'stips,'  small  pay,  which 
itself  comes  from  '  stipo,'  to  press  together,  with  the  idea  of 
small  coin  heaped  up  in  little  towers  or  piles.  But  with  the 
idea  of  lateral  pressing  together,  instead  of  downward,  we  get 
6  stipes,'  a  solid  log  ;  in  Greek,  with  the  same  sense,  o-rvVos, 
(stupos,)  whence,  gradually,  with  help  from  another  word 
meaning  to  beat,  (and  a  side-glance  at  beating  of  hemp,)  wTe 
get  our  'stupid,'  the  German  stumph,  the  Scottish  sumph,  and 
the  plain  English  ;  stump.' 

Befining  on  the  more  delicate  sound  of  stipes,  the  Latins 


THE  STEM. 


105 


got  'stipula,'  the  thin  stem  of  straw  :  which  rustles  and  rip- 
ples daintily  in  verse,  associated  with  spica  and  spiculum,  used 
of  the  sharp  pointed  ear  of  corn,  and  its  fine  processes  of  fairy 
shafts. 

28.  There  are  yet  two  more  names  of  stalk  to  be  studied, 
though,  except  for  particular  plants,  not  needing  to  be  used, 
— namely,  the  Latin  cau-dex,  and  cau-lis,  both  connected 
with  the  Greek  Kav\6s,  properly  meaning  a  solid  stalk  like  a 
handle,  passing  into  the  sense  of  the  hilt  of  a  sword,  or  quill 
of  a  pen.  Then,  in  Latin,  caudex  passes  into  the  sense  of 
log,  and  so,  of  cut  plank  or  tablet  of  wood  ;  thus  finally  be- 
coming the  classical  c  codex '  of  writings  engraved  on  such 
wooden  tablets,  and  therefore  generally  used  for  authoritative 
manuscripts. 

Lastly,  'caulis,'  retained  accurately  in  our  cauliflower,  con- 
tracted in  'colewort,'  and  refined  in  c  kail,'  softens  itself  into 
the  French  '  chou,'  meaning  properly  the  whole  family  of 
thick-stalked  eatable  salads  with  spreading  heads  ;  but  these 
being  distinguished  explicitly  by  Pliny  as  £Capitati,'  *  salads 
with  a  head/  or  \  Captain  salads,'  the  mediaeval  French  soft- 
ened the  £  caulis  capitatus  '  into  £  chou  cabus  ; ' — or,  to  sepa- 
rate the  round  or  apple-like  mass  of  leaves  from  the  flowery 
foam,  '  cabus  '  simply,  by  us  at  last  enriched  and  emphasized 
into  1  cabbage.' 

29.  I  believe  we  have  now  got  through  the  stiffest  piece  of 
etymology  we  shall  have  to  master  in  the  course  of  our  botany  ; 
but  I  am  certain  that  young  readers  will  find  patient  work, 
in  this  kind,  well  rewarded  by  the  groups  of  connected 
thoughts  which  will  thus  attach  themselves  to  familiar  names ; 
and  their  grasp  of  every  language  they  learn  must  only  be 
esteemed  by  them  secure  when  they  recognize  its  deriva- 
tives in  these  homely  associations,  and  are  as  much  at  ease 
with  the  Latin  or  French  syllables  of  a  word  as  with  the  Eng- 
lish ones ;  this  familiarity  being  above  all  things  needful  to 
cure  our  young  students  of  their  present  ludicrous  impres- 
sion that  what  is  simple,  in  English,  is  knowing,  in  Greek  ; 
and  that  terms  constructed  out  of  a  dead  language  will  ex- 
plain difficulties  which  remained  insoluble  in  a  living  one 


106 


PROSERPINA. 


But  Greek  is  not  yet  dead  :  while  if  we  carry  our  unscholarly 
nomenclature  much  further,  English  soon  will  be  ;  and  then 
doubtless  botanical  gentlemen  at  Athens  will  for  some  time 
think  it  fine  to  describe  what  we  used  to  call  caryophyllace^e, 
as  the  eSA^tSes. 

30.  For  indeed  wTe  are  all  of  us  yet  but  school-boys,  clum- 
sily using  alike  our  lips  and  brains  ;  and  with  all  our  mastery 
of  instruments  and  patience  of  attention,  but  few  have  reached, 
and  those  dimly,  the  first  level  of  science, — wonder. 

For  the  first  instinct  of  the  stem, — unnamed  by  us  yet— 
un thought  of, — the  instinct  of  seeking  light,  as  of  the  root  to 
seek  darkness, — what  words  can  enough  speak  the  wonder  of  it. 

Look.  Here  is  the  little  thing,  Line-study  V.  (A),  in  its 
first  birth  to  us :  the  stem  of  stems  ;  the  one  of  which  we 
pray  that  it  may  bear  our  daily  bread.  The  seed  has  fallen 
in  the  ground  with  the  springing  germ  of  it  downwards ; 
with  heavenly  cunning  the  taught  stem  curls  round,  and  seeks 
the  never-seen  light.  Veritable  1  conversion/  miraculous, 
called  of  God.  And  here  is  the  oat  germ,  (B) — after  the 
wheat,  most  vital  of  divine  gifts  ;  and  assuredly,  in  days  to 
come,  fated  to  grow  on  many  a  naked  rock  in  hitherto  lifeless 
lands,  over  which  the  glancing  sheaves  of  it  will  shake  sweet 
treasure  of  innocent  gold. 

And  who  shall  tell  us  how  they  grow  ;  and  the  fashion  of 
their  rustling  pillars — bent,  and  again  erect,  at  every  breeze. 
Fluted  shaft  or  clustered  pier,  how  poor  of  art,  beside  this 
grass-shaft — built,  first  to  sustain  the  food  of  men,  then  to  be 
strewn  under  their  feet ! 

We  must  not  stay  to  think  of  it,  yet,  or  we  shall  get  no  far- 
ther till  harvest  has  come  and  gone  again.  And  having  our 
names  of  stems  now  determined  enough,  we  must  in  next 
chapter  try  a  little  to  understand  the  different  kinds  of  them. 

The  following  notes,  among  many  kindly  sent  me  on  the 
subject  of  Scottish  Heraldry,  seem  to  be  the  most  trust- 
worthy : 

"The  earliest  known  mention  of  the  thistle  as  the  national  badge  of 
Scotland  is  in  the  inventory  of  the  effects  of  James  III.,  who  probably 
adopted  it  as  an  appropriate  illustration  of  the  royal  motto,  hi  defence. 


OUTSIDE  AND  IN. 


10? 


•  "  Thistles  occur  on  the  coins  of  James  IV.,  Mary,  James  V.,  and 
James  VI.  ;  and  on  those  of  James  VI.  they  are  for  the  first  time 
accompanied  by  the  motto,  Nemo  me  impune  lacessit. 

"  A  collar  of  thistles  appears  on  the  gold  bonnet-pieces  of  James  V. 
of  1539  ;  and  the  royal  ensigns,  as  depicted  in  Sir  David  Lindsay's 
armorial  register  of  1542,  are  surrounded  by  a  collar  formed  entirely  of 
golden  thistles,  with  an  oval  badge  attached. 

4 1  This  collar,  however,  was  a  mere  device  until  the  institution,  or,  as 
it  is  generally  but  inaccurately  called,  the  revival,  of  the  order  of  the 
Thistle  by  James  VII.  (II.  of  England),  which  took  place  on  May  29, 
1687." 

Date  of  James  IIL's  reign  1460—1488. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OUTSIDE    AND  IN. 

1.  The  elementary  study  of  methods  of  growth,  given  in 
the  following  chapter,  has  been  many  years  written,  (the 
greater  part  soon  after  the  fourth  volume  of  '  Modern  Paint- 
ers ') ;  and  ought  now  to  be  rewritten  entirely  ;  but  having  no 
time  to  do  this,  I  leave  it  with  only  a  word  or  two  of  modifi- 
cation, because  some  truth  and  clearness  of  incipient  notion 
will  be  conveyed  by  it  to  young  readers,  from  which  I  can 
afterwards  lop  the  errors,  and  into  which  I  can  graft  the  finer 
facts,  better  than  if  I  had  a  less  blunt  embryo  to  begin  with. 

2.  A  stem,  then,  broadly  speaking,  (I  had  thus  began  the 
old  chapter,)  is  the  channel  of  communication  between  the  leaf 
and  root ;  and  if  the  leaf  can  grow  directly  from  the  root 
there  is  no  stem  :  so  that  it  is  well  first  to  conceive  of  all 
plants  as  consisting  of  leaves  and  roots  only,  with  the  condi- 
tion that  each  leaf  must  have  its  own  quite  particular  root  * 
somewhere. 

Let  a  b  c,  Fig.  16,  be  three  leaves,  each,  as  you  see,  with  its 
own  root,  and  by  no  means  dependent  on  other  leaves  for  its 

*  Recent  botanical  research  makes  this  statement  more  than  dubitable. 
Nevertheless,  on  no  other  supposition  can  the  forms  and  action  of  tree- 
branches,  so  far  as  at  present  known  to  me,  be  yet  clearly  accounted 
for. 


108 


PROSERPINA. 


daily  bread  ;  and  let  the  horizontal  line  be  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  Then  the  plant  has  no  stem,  or  an  underground  one. 
But  if  the  three  leaves  rise  above  the  ground,  as  in  Fig.  17, 
they  must  reach  their  roots  by  elongating  their  stalks,  and 
this  elongation  is  the  stem  of  the  plant.  If  the  outside  leaves 
grow  last,  and  are  therefore  youngest,  the  plant  is  said  to 
grow  from  the  outside.  You  know  that  '  ex '  means  out,  and 
that  'gen'  is  the  first  syllable  of  Genesis  (or  creation),  there- 
fore the  old  botanists,  putting  an  o  between  the  two  syllables, 
called  the  plants  whose  outside  leaves  grew  last,  Ex-o-gens.  If 
the  inside  leaf  growTs  last,  and  is  youngest,  the  plant  was  said 
to  grow  from  the  inside,  and  from  the  Greek  Endon,  within, 
called  an  '  Endo-gen.'    If  these  names  are  persisted  in,  the 


c 


Fig.  16.  Fig.  17. 


Greek  botanists,  to  return  the  compliment,  will  of  course  call 
Endogens  'WeiS/Sopi/ISes,  and  Exogens  "Oirro-etS/^opviScs.  In 
the  Oxford  school,  they  will  be  called  simply  Inlaid  and  Out- 
laid. 

3.  You  see  that  if  the  outside  leaves  are  to  grow  last,  they 
may  conveniently  grow  two  at  a  time  ;  which  they  accordingly 
do,  and  exogens  always  start  with  two  little  leaves  from  their 
roots,  and  may  therefore  conveniently  be  called  two-leaved  ; 
which,  if  you  please,  we  will  for  our  parts  call  them.  The 
botanists  call  them  '  two-suckered,'  and  can't  be  content  to  call 
them  that  in  English  ;  but  drag  in  a  long  Greek  word,  mean- 
ing the  fleshy  sucker  of  the  sea-devil, — c  cotyledon/ which, 
however,  I  find  is  practically  getting  shortened  into  '  cot,'  and 
that  they  will  have  to  end  by  calling  endogens,  monocots,  and 


OUTSIDE  AJSII)  IN. 


109 


exogens,  bicots.  I  mean  steadily  to  call  them  one-leaved  and 
two-leaved,  for  this  further  reason,  that  they  differ  not  merely 
in  the  single  or  dual  springing  of  first  leaves  from 
\  the  seed  ;  but  in  the  distinctly  single  or  dual  ar- 
rangement of  leaves  afterwards  on  the  stem  ;  so  that, 
through  all  the  complexity  obtained  by  alternate  and 
spiral  placing,  every  bicot  or  two-leaved  flower  or  tree 
is  in  reality  composed  of  dual  groups  of  leaves,  sep- 
arated by  a  given  length  of  stem  ;  as,  most  charac- 
teristically in  this  pure  mountain  type  of  the  Ragged 
Robin  (Clarissa  laciniosa),  Fig.  18  ;  and  compare  A, 
and  B,  Lines-tudy  II. ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
monocot  plants  are  by  close  analysis,  I  think,  always 
resolvable  into  successively  climbing  leaves,  sessile 
on  one  another,  and  sending  their  roots, 
or  processes,  for  nourishment,  down 
I       through  one  another,  as  in  Fig.  19. 

4.  Not  that  I  am  yet  clear,  at  all,  my- 
self ;  but  I  do  think  it's  more  the  botan- 
ists' fault  than  mine,  what ■  cotyiedonous'' 
structure  there  may  be  at  the  outer  base 
of  each  successive  bud ;  and  still  less,  how 
Ji       the  intervenient  length  of  stem,  in  the     fIGf  19, 
W       bicots,  is  related  to  their  power,  or  law,  of  branching. 
For  not  only  the  two-leaved  tree  is  outlaid,  and  the 
one-leaved  inlaid,  but  the  two-leaved  tree  is  branched, 
and  the  one-leaved  tree  is  not  branched.    This  is  a 
most  vital  and  important  distinction,  wfhich  I  state  to 
you  in  very  bold  terms,  for  though  there  are  some 
apparent  exceptions  to  the  law,  there  are,  I  believe, 
no  real  ones,  if  we  define  a  branch  rightly.  Thus, 
the  head  of  a  palm  tree  is  merely  a  cluster  of  large 
,  leaves  ;  and  the  spike  of  a  grass,  a  clustered  blossom. 
The  stem,  in  both,  is  unbranched ;  and  we  should  be 
able  in  this  respect  to  classify  plants  very  simply  in- 
fig.  is.  deed,  but  for  a  provoking  species  of  intermediate 
creatures  whose  branching  is  always  in  the  manner  of  corals, 
or  sponges,  or  arborescent  minerals,  irregular  and  accidental, 


110 


PROSERPINA. 


and  essentially,  therefore,  distinguished  from  the  systematic 
anatomy  of  a  truly  branched  tree.  Of  these  presently  ;  we 
must  go  on  by  very  short  steps :  and  I  find  no  step  can  be 
taken  without  check  from  existing  generalizations.  Sowerby's 
definition  of  Monocotyledons,  in  his  ninth  volume,  begins  thus: 
"Herbs,  (or  rarely,  and  only  in  exotic  genera,)  trees,  in  which 
the  wood,  pith,  and  bark  are  indistinguishable."  Now  if  there 
be  one  plant  more  than  another  in  which  the  pith  is  defined, 
it  is  the  common  Rush  ;  while  the  nobler  families  of  true  herbs 
derive  their  principal  character  from  being  pithless  altogether  ! 
We  cannot  advance  too  slowly. 

5.  In  the  families  of  one-leaved  plants  in  which  the  young 
leaves  grow  directly  out  of  the  old  ones,  it  be- 
comes a  grave  question  for  them  whether  the  old 
ones  are  to  lie  flat  or  edgeways,  and  whether  they 
must  therefore  grow  out  of  their  faces  or  their 
edges.  And  we  must  at  once  understand  the  way 
they  contrive  it,  in  either  case. 

Among  the  many  forms  taken  by  the  Arethusan 
leaf,  one  of  the  commonest  is  long  and  gradually 
tapering, — much  broader  at  the  base  than  the 
point.  We  will  take  such  an  one  for  examination, 
and  suppose  that  it  is  growing  on  the  ground  as 
in  Fig.  20,  with  a  root  to  its  every  fibre.  Cut  out 
a  piece  of  strong  paper  roughly  into  the  shape 
of  this  Arethusan  leaf,  a,  Fig.  21.  Now  suppose 
the  next  young  leaf  has  to  spring  out  of  the  front 
of  this  one,  at  about  the  middle  of  its  height. 
Give  it  two  nicks  with  the  scissors  at  b  b  ;  then 
roll  up  the  lower  part  into  a  cylinder,  (it  will 
overlap  a  good  deal  at  the  bottom,)  and  tie  it 
fast  with  a  fine  thread  :  so,  you  will  get  the  form  at  c.  Then 
bend  the  top  of  it  back,  so  that,  seen  sideways,  it  appears  as 
at  d,  and  you  see  you  have  made  quite  a  little  flower-pot  to 
plant  your  new  leaf  in,  and  perhaps  it  may  occur  to  you  that 
you  have  seen  something  like  this  before.  Now  make  another, 
a  little  less  wide,  but  with  the  part  for  the  cylinder  twice  as 
long,  roll  it  np  in  the  game  way,  and  slio  it  inside  the  other, 


OUTSIDE  AND  IN 


Ill 


with  the  flat  part  turned  the  other  way,  e.  Surely  this  re- 
minds you  now  of  something  you  have  seen  ?  Or  must  I  draw 
the  something  (Fig.  22)  ? 

6.  All  grasses  are  thus  constructed,  and  have  their  leaves 
set  thus,  opposite,  on  the  sides  of  their  tubular  stems,  alter- 
nately, as  they  ascend.  But  in  most  of  them  there  is  also  a 
peculiar  construction,  by  which,  at  the  base  of  the  sheath,  or 
enclosing  tube,  each  leaf  articulates  itself  with  the  rest  of  the 
stem  at  a  ringed  knot,  or  joint. 


Fig.  21. 

Before  examining  these,  remember  there  are  mainly  two 
sorts  of  joints  in  the  framework  of  the  bodies  of  animals. 
One  is  that  in  which  the  bone  is  thick  at  the  joints  and  thin 
between  them,  (see  the  bone  of  the  next  chicken  leg  you  eat), 
the  other  is  that  of  animals  that  have  shells  or  horny  coats,  in 
which  characteristically  the  shell  is  thin  at  the  joints,  and 
thick  between  them  (look  at  the  next  lobster's  claw  you  can 
see,  without  eating).  You  know,  also,  that  though  the  crus- 
taceous  are  titled  only  from  their  crusts,  the  name  '  insect  * 


112 


PROSERPINA. 


is  given  to  the  whole  insect  tribe,  because  they  are  farther 
jointed  almost  into  sections  :  it  is  easily  remembered,  also, 
that  the  projecting  joint  means  strength  and  elasticity  in  the 
creature,  and  that  all  its  limbs  are  useful  to  it,  and  cannot 
conveniently  be  parted  with ;  and  that  the  incised,  sectional, 
or  insectile  joint  means  more  or  less  weakness,* 
and  necklace-like  laxity  or  license  in  the  creature's 
make  ;  and  an  ignoble  power  of  shaking  off  its 
legs  or  arms  on  occasion,  coupled  also  with  modes 
of  growth  involving  occasionally  quite  astonishing 
transformations,  and  beginnings  of  new  life  under 
new  circumstances ;  so  that,  until  very  lately,  no 
mortal  knew  what  a  crab  was  like  in  its  youth,  the 
very  existence  of  the  creature,  as  well  as  its  legs, 
being  jointed,  as  it  were,  and  made  in  separate 
pieces  with  the  narrowest  possible  thread  of  con- 
|  |  |  nection  between  them ;  and  its  principal,  or 
ti  stomachic,  period  of  life,  connected  with  its  senti- 
mental period  by  as  thin  a  thread  as  a  wasp's 
stomach  is  with  its  thorax. 

7.  Now  in  plants,  as  in  animals,  there  are  just 
the  same  opposed  aspects  of  joint,  with  this  special- 
ty of  difference  in  function,  that  the  animal's  limb 
bends  at  the  joints,  but  the  vegetable  limb  stiffens. 
And  when  the  articulation  projects,  as  in  the  joint 
of  a  cane,  it  means  not  only  that  the  strength  of 
the  plant  is  well  carried  through  the  junction,  but 
is  carried  farther  and  more  safely  than  it  could  be 
without  it :  a  cane  is  stronger,  and  can  stand  higher 
than  it  could  otherwise,  because  of  its  joints.  Also, 
this  structure  implies  that  the  plant  has  a  will  of 
its  own,  and  a  position  which  on  the  whole  it  will  keep,  how- 
ever it  may  now  and  then  be  bent  out  of  it  ;  and  that  it  has  a 
continual  battle,  of  a  healthy  and  humanlike  kind,  to  wage  with 
surrounding  elements. 

*  Not  always  in  muscular  power  ;  but  the  framework  on  which  strong 
muscles  are  to  act,  as  that  of  an  insect's  wing,  or  its  jaw,  is  never  in- 
sectile. 


Fig.  22. 


OUTSIDE  AND  IN. 


113 


But  the  crabby,  or  insect-like,  joint,  which  you  get  in  sea- 
weeds and  cacti,  means  either  that  the  plant  is  to  be  dragged 
and  wagged  here  and  there  at  the  will  of  waves,  and  to  have 
no  spring  nor  mind  of  its  own  ;  or  else  that  it  has  at  least  no 
springy  intention  and  elasticity  of  purpose,  but  only  a  knobby, 
knotty,  prickly,  malignant  stubbornness,  and  incoherent  opin- 
iativeness  ;  crawling  about,  and  coggling,  and  grovelling,  and 
aggregating  anyhow,  like  the  minds  of  so  many  people  whom 
one  knows  ! 

8.  Keturning  then  to  our  grasses,  in  which  the  real  rooting 
and  junction  of  the  leaves  with  each  other  is  at  these  joints  ; 
we  find  that  therefore  every  leaf  of  grass  may  be  thought  of  as 
consisting  of  two  main  parts,  for  which  we  shall  want  two 
separate  names.  The  lowest  part,  which  wraps  itself  round 
to  become  strong,  we  will  call  the  '  staff/  and  for  the  free- 
floating  outer  part  we  will  take  specially  the  name  given  at 
present  carelessly  to  a  large  number  of  the  plants  themselves, 
'flag.'  This  will  give  a  more  clear  meaning  to  the  words 
'rod'  (virga),  and  'staff'  (baculus),  when  they  occur  together, 
as  in  the  23rd  Psalm  ;  and  remember  the  distinction  is  that  a 
rod  bends  like  a  switch,  but  a  staff  is  stiff.  I  keep  the  well- 
known  name  c blade '  for  grass-leaves  in  their  fresh  green 
state. 

9.  You  felt,  as  you  were  bending  down  the  paper  into  the 
form  d,  Fig.  21,  the  difficulty  and  awkwardness  of  the  transi- 
tion from  the  tubular  form  of  the  staff  to  the  flat  one  of  the 
flag.  The  mode  in  which  this  change  is  effected  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  features  in  plants,  for  you  will  find  presently 
that  the  leaf-stalk  in  ordinary  leaves  is  only  a  means  of  accom- 
plishing the  same  change  from  round  to  flat.  But  you  know  I 
said  just  now  that  some  leaves  were  not  flat,  but  set  upright, 
edgeways.  It  is  not  a  common  position  in  two-leaved  frees  ; 
but  if  you  can  run  out  and  look  at  an  arbor  vitae,  it  may  interest 
you  to  see  its  hatchet-shaped  vertically  crested  cluster  of 
leaves  transforming  themselves  gradually  downwards  into 
branches ;  and  in  one-leaved  trees  the  vertically  edged  group 
is  of  great  importance. 

10.  Cut  out  another  piece  of  paper  like  a  in  Fig.  21,  but 


PROSERPINA. 


now,  instead  of  merely  giving  it  nicks  at  a,  b,  cut  it  into  the 
shape  A,  Fig.  23.  Eoll  the  lower  part  up  as  before,  but  in- 
stead of  pulling  the  upper  part  clown,  pinch  its  back  at  the 
dotted  line,  and  bring  the  two  points,  a  and  b,  forward,  so 
that  they  may  touch  each  other.  B  shows  the  look  of  the 
thing  half-done,  before  the  points  a  and  b  have  quite  met 
Pinch  them  close,  and  stitch  the  two  edges  neatly  together, 
all  the  way  from  a  to  the  point  c  ;  then  roll  and  tie  up  the 

lower  part  as  before.  You  will  find 
then  that  the  back  or  spinal  line  of 
the  whole  leaf  is  bent  forward,  as  at 
B.  Now  go  out  to  the  garden  and 
gather  the  green  leaf  of  a  fleur-de- 
lys,  and  look  at  it  and  your  piece  of 
disciplined  paper  together ;  and  I 
fancy  you  will  probably  find  out 
several  things  for  yourself  that  I 
want  you  to  know. 

11.  You  see,  for  one  thing,  at  once, 
how  strong  the  fleur-de-lys  leaf  is,  and 
that  it  is  just  twice  as  strong  as  a 
blade  of  grass,  for  it  is  the  substance 
of  the  staff,  with  its  sides  flattened 
together,  while  the  grass  blade  is  a 
staff  cut  open  and  flattened  out.  And 
you  see  that  as  a  grass  blade  necessarily  flaps  down,  the  fleur- 
de-lys  leaf  as  necessarily  curves  up,  owing  to  that  inevitable 
bend  in  its  back.  And  you  see,  with  its  keen  edge,  and  long- 
curve,  and  sharp  point,  how  like  a  sword  it  is.  The  botanists 
would  for  once  have  given  a  really  good  and  right  name  to  the 
plants  which  have  this  kind  of  leaf,  'Ensatae,'  from  the  Latin 
4  ensis,'  a  sword  ;  if  only  sata  had  been  properly  formed  from 
sis.  "We  can't  let  the  rude  Latin  stand,  but  you  may  remem- 
ber that  the  fleur-de-lys,  which  is  the  flower  of  chivalry,  has  a 
sword  for  its  leaf,  and  a  lily  for  its  heart. 

12.  In  case  you  cannot  gather  a  fleur-de-lys  leaf,  I  have 
drawn  for  you,  in  Plate  VI.,  a  cluster  of  such  leaves,  wrhich  are 
as  pretty  as  any,  and  so  small  that,  missing  the  points  of  a 


Fig.  23. 


OUTSIDE  AND  IN. 


115 


few,  I  can  draw  them  of  their  actual  size.  You  see  the  pretty 
alternate  interlacing  at  the  bottom,  and  if  you  can  draw  at  all, 
and  will  try  to  outline  their  curves,  you  will  find  what  subtle 
lines  they  are.  I  did  not  know  this  name  for  the  strong- 
edged  grass  leaves  when  I  wrote  the  pieces  about  shield  and 
sword  leaves  in  'Modern  Painters '  ;  I  wish  I  had  chanced  in 
those  passages  on  some  other  similitude,  but  I  can't  alter 
them  now,  and  my  trustful  pupils  may  avoid  all  confusion  of 
thought  by  putting  gladius  for  ensis,  and  translating  it  by 
the  word  '  scymitar,'  which  is  also  more  accurate  in  expressing 
the  curvature  blade.  So  we  will  call  the  ensatse,  instead, 
1  gladiolse,'  translating,  £  scymitar-grasses.'  And  having  now  got 
at  some  clear  idea  of  the  distinction  between  outlaid  and  inlaid 
growth  in  the  stem,  the  reader  will  find  the  elementary  analy- 
sis of  forms  resulting  from  outlaid  growth  in  '  Modern  Paint- 
ers '  ;  and  I  mean  to  republish  it  in  the  sequel  of  this  book, 
but  must  go  on  to  other  matters  here.  The  growth  of  the 
inlaid  stem  we  will  follow  as  far  as  we  need,  for  English 
plants,  in  examining  the  grasses. 

Florence,  11th  September,  1874. 
As  I  correct  this  chapter  for  press,  I  find  it  is  too  imperfect 
to  be  let  go  without  a  word  or  two  more.  #In  the  first  place,  I 
have  not  enough,  in  distinguishing  the  nature  of  the  living 
yearly  shoot,  with  its  cluster  of  fresh  leafage,  from  that  of  the 
accumulated  mass  of  perennial  trees,  taken  notice  of  the 
similar  power  even  of  the  anuual  shoot,  to  obtain  some  man- 
ner of  immortality  for  itself,  or  at  least  of  usefulness,  after 
death.  A  Tuscan  woman  stopped  me  on  the  path  up  to  Fie- 
sole  last  night,  to  beg  me  to  buy  her  plaited  straw.  I  wonder 
how  long  straw  lasts,  if  one  takes  care  of  it  ?  A  Leghorn 
bonnet,  (if  now  such  things  are,)  carefully  put  away, — even 
properly  taken  care  of  when  it  is  worn, — how  long  will  it  last, 
young  ladies  ? 

I  have  just  been  reading  the  fifth  chapter  of  II.  Esdras,  and 
am  fain  to  say,  with  less  discomfort  than  otherwise  I  might 
have  felt,  (the  example  being  set  me  by  the  archangel  Uriel,) 
u  I  am  not  sent  to  tell  thee,  for  I  do  not  know."    How  old  is 


116 


PROSERPINA. 


the  oldest  straw  known  ?  the  oldest  linen  ?  the  oldest  hemp  V 
We  have  mummy  wheat, — cloth  of  papyrus,  which  is  a  kind 
of  straw.  The  paper  reeds  by  the  brooks,  the  flax-flower  in 
the  field,  leave  such  imperishable  frame  behind  them.  And 
Ponte-della-Paglia,  in  Venice  ;  and  Straw  Street,  of  Paris,  re- 
membered in  Heaven, — there  is  no  occasion  to  change  their 
names,  as  one  may  have  to  change  '  Waterloo  Bridge,'  or  the 
*  Rue  de  lTmperatrice.'  Poor  Empress !  Had  she  but  known 
that  her  true  dominion  was  in  the  straw  streets  of  her  fields  ; 
not  in  the  stone  streets  of  her  cities  ! 

But  think  how  wonderful  this  imperishableness  of  the  stem 
of  many  plants  is,  even  in  their  annual  work  :  how  much  more 
in  their  perennial  work  !  The  noble  stability  between  death 
and  life,  of  a  piece  of  perfect  wood  ?  It  cannot  grow,  but 
will  not  decay  ;  keeps  record  of  its  years  of  life,  but  surren- 
ders them  to  become  a  constantly  serviceable  thing :  which 
may  be  sailed  in,  on  the  sea,  built  with,  on  the  land,  carved 
by  Donateilo,  painted  on  by  Fra  Angelico.  And  it  is  not  the 
wood's  fault,  but  the  fault  of  Florence  in  not  taking  proper 
care  of  it,  that  the  panel  of  Sandro  Botticelli's  loveliest  pict- 
ure has  cracked,  (not  with  heat,  I  believe,  but  blighting  frost), 
a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide  through  the  Madonna's  face. 

But  what  is  this  strange  state  of  undecaying  wood  ?  What 
sort  of  latent  life  has  it,  which  it  only  finally  parts  with  when 
it  rots  ? 

Nay,  what  is  the  law  by  wThich  its  natural  life  is  measured  ? 
What  makes  a  tree  1  old '  ?  One  sees  the  Spanish-chestnut 
trunks  among  the  Apennines  growing  into  caves,  instead  of 
logs.  Vast  hollows,  confused  among  the  recessed  darknesses 
of  the  marble  crags,  surrounded  by  mere  laths  of  living  stem, 
each  with  its  coronal  of  glorious  green  leaves.  Why  can't  the 
tree  go  on,  and  on, — hollowing  itself  into  a  Fairy — no — a 
Dryad,  Ring, — till  it  becomes  a  perfect  Stonehenge  of  a  tree  ? 
Truly,  " I  am  not  sent  to  tell  thee,  for  I  do  not  know." 

The  worst  of  it  is,  however,  that  I  don't  know  one  thing 
which  I  ought  very  thoroughly  to  have  known  at  least  thirty 
years  ago,  namely,  the  true  difference  in  the  way  of  building 
the  trunk  in  outlaid  and  inlaid  wood.    I  have  an  idea  that  the 


OUTSIDE  AND  IN 


117 


stem  of  a  palm-tree  is  only  a  heap  of  leaf-roots  built  up  like  a 
tower  of  bricks,  year  by  year,  and  that  the  palm-tree  really 
grows  on  the  top  of  it,  like  a  bunch  of  fern  ;  but  I've  no 
books  here,  and  no  time  to  read  them  if  I  had.  If  only  I  were 
a  stronge  giant,  instead  of  a  thin  old  gentleman  of  fifty-five, 
how  I  should  like  to  pull  up  one  of  those  little  palm-trees  by 
the  roots — (by  the  way,  what  are  the  roots  of  a  palm  like  ? 
and,  how  does  it  stand  in  sand,  where  it  is  wanted  to  stand, 
mostly?  Fancy,  not  knowing  that,  at  fifty-five  !) — that  grow 
all  along  the  Riviera  ;  and  snap  its  stem  in  two,  and  cut  it 
down  the  middle.  But  I  suppose  there  are  sections  enough 
now  in  our  grand  botanical  collections,  and  you  can  find  it  all 
out  for  yourself.  That  you  should  be  able  to  ask  a  question 
clearly,  is  two-thirds  of  the  way  to  getting  it  answered  ;  and 
I  think  this  chapter  of  mine  will  at  least  enable  you  to  ask 
some  questions  about  the  stem,  though  what  a  stem  is,  truly, 
* '  I  am  not  sent  to  tell  thee,  for  I  do  not  know." 

Knaresborougu,  30^  April,  1876. 
I  see  by  the  date  of  last  paragraph  that  this  chapter  has 
been  in  my  good  Aylesbury  printer's  type  for  more  than  a 
year  and  a  half.  At  this  rate,  Proserpina  has  a  distant  chance 
of  being  finished  in  the  spirit-land,  with  more  accurate  infor- 
mation derived  from  the  archangel  Uriel  himself,  (not  that  he 
is  likely  to  know  much  about  the  matter,  if  he  keeps  on  let- 
ting himself  be  prevented  from  ever  seeing  foliage  in  spring- 
time by  the  black  demon-winds,)  about  the  year  2000.  In  the 
meantime,  feeling  that  perhaps  I  am  sent  to  tell  my  readers  a 
little  more  than  is  above  told,  I  have  had  recourse  to  my  bo- 
tanical friend,  good  Mr.  Oliver  of  Kew,  who  has  taught  me, 
first,  of  palms,  that  they  actually  stitch  themselves  into  the 
ground,  with  a  long  dipping  loop,  up  and  down,  of  the  root 
fibres,  concerning  which  sempstress  work  I  shall  have  a 
month's  puzzlement  before  I  can  report  on  it ;  secondly,  that 
all  the  increment  of  tree  stem  is,  by  division  and  multiplica- 
tion of  the  cells  of  the  wood,  a  process  not  in  the  least  to  be 
described  as  c  sending  down  roots  from  the  leaf  to  the  ground.' 
I  suspected  as  much  in  beginning  to  revise  this  chapter  ;  but 


118 


PROSERPINA. 


hold  to  my  judgment  in  not  cancelling  it.  For  this  multipli- 
cation of  the  cells  is  at  least  compelled  by  an  influence  which 
passes  from  the  leaf  to  the  ground,  and  vice  versa  ;  and  which 
is  at  present  best  conceivable  to  me  by  imagining  the  contin- 
ual and  invisible  descent  of  lightning  from  electric  cloud  by  a 
conducting  rod,  endowed  wTith  the  power  of  softly  splitting 
the  rod  into  two  rods,  each  as  thick  as  the  original  one, 
Studying  microscopically,  we  should  then  see  the  molecules 
of  copper,  as  we  see  the  cells  of  the  wood,  dividing  and  in- 
creasing, each  one  of  them  into  two.  But  the  visible  result, 
and  mechanical  conditions  of  growth,  would  still  be  the  same 
as  if  the  leaf  actually  sent  down  a  new  root  fibre  ;  and,  more 
than  this,  the  currents  of  accumulating  substance,  marked  by 
the  grain  of  the  wood,  are,  I  think,  quite  plainly  and  abso- 
lutely those  of  streams  flowing  only  from  the  leaves  down- 
wards ;  never  from  the  root  up,  nor  of  mere  lateral  increase. 
I  must  look  over  all  my  drawings  again,  and  at  tree  stems 
again,  with  more  separate  study  of  the  bark  and  pith  in  those 
museum  sections,  before  I  can  assert  this  ;  but  there  will  be 
no  real  difficulty  in  the  investigation.  If  the  increase  of  the 
wood  is  lateral  only,  the  currents  round  the  knots  will  be 
compressed  at  the  sides,  and  open  above  and  below  ;  but  if 
downwards,  compressed  above  the  knot  and  open  below  it. 
The  nature  of  the  force  itself,  and  the  manner  of  its  ordi- 
nances in  direction,  remain,  and  must  for  ever  remain,  inscru- 
table as  our  own  passions,  in  the  hand  of  the  God  of  ail  Spirits, 
and  of  all  Flesh. 

u  Drunk  is  each  ridge,  of  thy  cup  drinking, 
Each  clod  relenteth  at  thy  dressing, 
Thy  cloud-borne  waters  inly  sinking, 
Fair  spring  sproutes  forth,  blest  with  thy  blessing  ; 
The  fertile  year  is  with  thy  bounty  crouned, 
And  where  thou  go'st,  thy  goings  fat  the  ground. 

Plenty  bedews  the  desert  places, 

A  hedge  of  mirth  the  hills  encloseth, 

The  fields  with  flockes  have  hid  their  faces, 

A  robe  of  corn  the  valleys  clotheth. 
Deserts  and  hills  and  fields  and  valleys  all, 
Eejoice,  shout,  sing,  and  on  thy  name  do  call." 


THE  BARK. 


119 


CHAPTEE  X. 

THE  BARK. 

1.  Philologists  are  continually  collecting  instances,  like  our 
friend  the  French  critic  of  Virgil,  of  the  beauty  of  finished 
language,  or  the  origin  of  unfinished,  in  the  imitation  of  nat- 
ural sounds.  But  such  collections  give  an  entirely  false  idea 
of  the  real  power  of  language,  unless  they  are  balanced  by  an 
opponent  list  of  the  words  which  signally  fail  of  any  such  imi- 
tative virtue,  and  wThose  sound,  if  one  dwelt  upon  it,  is  de- 
structive of  their  meaning. 

2.  For  instance.  Few  sounds  are  mox*e  distinct  in  their 
kind,  or  one  would  think  more  likely  to  be  vocally  reproduced 
in  the  word  which  signified  them,  than  that  of  a  swift  rent  in 
strongly  woven  cloth  ;  and  the  English  words  '  rag '  and  rag- 
ged, with  the  Greek  p^yw/u,  do  indeed  in  a  measure  recall  the 
tormenting  effect  upon  the  ear.  But  it  is  curious  that  th<s 
verb  which  is  meant  to  express  the  actual  origination  of  rags, 
should  rhyme  with  two  words  entirely  musical  and  peaceful — 
words,  indeed,  which  I  always  reserve  for  final  resource  in  pas- 
sages which  I  want  to  be  soothing  as  well  as  pretty, — *  fair/ 
and  '  air ; '  while,  in  its  orthography,  it  is  identical  with  the 
word  representing  the  bodi]y  sign  of  tenderest  passion,  and 
grouped  with  a  multitude  of  others,*  in  which  the  mere  inser- 
tion of  a  consonant  makes  such  wide  difference  of  sentiment 
as  between  'dear'  and  £  drear/  or  'pear' and  '  spear/  The 
Greek  root,  on  the  other  hand,  has  persisted  in  retaining  some 
vestige  of  its  excellent  dissonance,  even  where  it  has  parted 
with  the  last  vestige  of  the  idea  it  was  meant  to  convey ;  and 
when  Burns  did  his  best, — and  his  best  was  above  most  men's 

*  It  is  one  of  the  three  cadences,  (the  others  being  of  the  words  rhym- 
ing to  '  mind  '  and  *  way,')  used  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney  in  his  marvellous 
paraphrase  of  the  55th  Fsalm. 


120 


PROSERPINA. 


—to  gather  pleasant  liquid  and  labial  syllabling,  round  gen- 
tie  meaning,  in 

44  Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ?  " 

he  certainly  had  little  thought  that  the  delicately  crisp  final  k? 
in  birk,  was  the  remnant  of  a  magnificent  Greek  effort  to  ex- 
press the  rending  of  the  earth  by  earthquake,  in  the  wars  of  the 
giants.  In  the  middle  of  that  word  4esmaragese,' we  get  our 
own  beggar's  e  rag  '  for  a  pure  root,  which  afterwards,  through 
the  Latin  frango,  softens  into  our  4  break,'  and  4  bark,' — the 
4  broken  thing  '  ;  that  idea  of  its  rending  around  the  tree's 
stem  having  been,  in  the  very  earliest  human  efforts  at  botani- 
cal description,  attached  to  it  by  the  pure  Aryan  race,  watch- 
ing the  strips  of  rosy  satin  break  from  the  birch  stems,  in  the 
Aberfeldys  of  Imaus. 

3.  That  this  tree  should  have  been  the  only  one  which  44 the 
Aryans,  coming  as  conquerors  from  the  North,  were  able  to 
recognize  in  Hinclostan,"  *  and  should  therefore  also  be  44  the 
only  one  whose  name  is  common  to  Sanskrit,  and  to  the  lan- 
guages of  Europe,"  delighted  me  greatly,  for  two  reasons  :  the 
first,  for  its  proof  that  in  spite  of  the  development  of  species, 
the  sweet  gleaming  of  birch  stem  has  never  changed  its  argent 
and  sable  for  any  unchequered  heraldry  ;  and  the  second,  that 
it  gave  proof  of  a  much  more  important  fact,  the  keenly  accu- 
rate observation  of  Aryan  foresters  at  that  early  date ;  for  the 
fact  is  that  the  breaking  of  the  thin -beaten  silver  of  the  birch 
trunk  is  so  delicate,  and  its  smoothness  so  graceful,  that  until 
I  painted  it  with  care,  I  was  not  altogether  clear-headed  my- 
self about  the  way  in  which  the  chequering  was  done :  nor 
until  Fors  to-day  brought  me  to  the  house  of  one  of  my  father's 
friends  at  Carshalton,  and  gave  me  three  birch  stems  to  look 
at  just  outside  the  window,  did  I  perceive  it  to  be  a  primal 
question  about  them,  what  it  is  that  blanches  that  dainty 

*  Lectures  on  the  Families  of  Speech,  by  the  Rev.  F.  Farrer,  Long, 
man,  1870.    Page  81. 


THE  BARK. 


121 


dress  of  theirs,  or,  anticipatorily,  weaves.  What  difference  is 
there  between  the  making  of  the  corky  excrescence  of  other 
trees,  and  of  this  almost  transparent  fine  white  linen  ?  I  per- 
ceive that  the  older  it  is,  within  limits,  the  finer  and  whiter ; 
hoary  tissue,  instead  of  hoary  hair — honouring  the  tree's  aged 
body  :  the  outer  sprays  have  no  silvery  light  on  their  youth. 
Does  the  membrane  thin  itself  into  whiteness  merely  by 
stretching,  or  produce  an  outer  film  of  new  substance  ?  * 

4.  And  secondly,  this  investiture,  why  is  it  transverse  to  the 
trunk, — swathing  it,  as  it  were,  in  bands  ?  Above  all, — when 
it  breaks, — why  does  it  break  round  the  tree  instead  of  down  ? 
All  other  bark  breaks  as  anything  would,  naturally,  round  a 
swelling  rod,  but  this,  as  if  the  stem  were  growing  longer ; 
until,  indeed,  it  reaches  farthest  heroic  old  age,  when  the 
whiteness  passes  away  again,  and  the  rending  is  like  that  of 
other  trees,  downwards.  So  that,  as  it  were  in  a  changing 
language,  we  have  the  great  botanical  fact  twice  taught  us,  by 
this  tree  of  Eden,  that  the  skins  of  trees  differ  from  the  skins 
of  the  higher  animals  in  that,  for  the  most  part,  they  won't 
stretch,  and  must  be  worn  torn. 

So  that  in  fact  the  most  popular  arrangement  of  vegetative 
adult  costume  is  Irish  ;  a  normal  investiture  in  honourable 
rags  ;  and  decorousness  of  tattering,  as  of  a  banner  borne  in 
splendid  ruin  through  storms  of  war. 

5.  Now  therefore,  if  we  think  of  it,  we  have  five  distinct 
orders  of  investiture  for  organic  creatures  ;  first,  mere  secre- 
tion of  mineral  substance,  chiefly  lime,  into  a  hard  shell, 
which,  if  broken,  can  only  be  mended,  like  china — by  stick- 
ing it  together  ;  secondly,  organic  substance  of  armour  which 
grows  into  its  proper  shape  at  once  for  good  and  all,  and  can't 
be  mended  at  all,  if  broken,  (as  of  insects)  ;  thirdly,  organic 
substance  of  skin,  which  stretches,  as  the  creature  grows,  by 
cracking,  over  a  fresh  skin  which  is  supplied  beneath  it,  as  in 
bark  of  trees  ;  fourthly,  organic  substance  of  skin  cracked 
symmetrically  into  plates  or  scales  which  can  increase  all 

*  I  only  profess,  you  will  please  to  observe,  to  ask  questions  in  Pro- 
serpina. Never  to  answer  any.  But  of  course  this  chapter  is  to  intro- 
duce some  further  inquiry  in  another  place. 


122 


PROSERPINA. 


round  their  edges,  and  are  connected  by  softer  skin,  below, 
as  in  fish  and  reptiles,  (divided  with  exquisite  lustre  and  flexi- 
bility, in  feathers  of  birds)  ;  and  lastly,  true  elastic  skin,  ex- 
tended in  soft  unison  with  the  creature's  growth, — blushing 
with  its  blood,  fading  with  its  fear  ;  breathing  with  its  breath, 
and  guarding  its  life  with  sentinel  beneficence  of  pain. 

6.  It  is  notable,  in  this  higher  and  lower  range  of  organic 
beauty,  that  the  decoration,  by  pattern  and  colour,  which  is 
almost  universal  in  the  protective  coverings  of  the  middle 
ranks  of  animals,  should  be  reserved  in  vegetables  for  the 
most  living  part  of  them,  the  flower  only  :  and  that  among 
animals,  few  but  the  malignant  and  senseless  are  permitted, 
in  the  corrugation  of  their  armour,  to  resemble  the  half-dead 
trunk  of  the  tree,  as  they  float  beside  it  in  the  tropical  river. 
I  must,  however,  leave  the  scale  patterns  of  the  palms  and 
other  inlaid  tropical  stems  for  after-examination, — content,  at 
present,  with  the  general  idea  of  the  bark  of  an  outlaid  tree 
as  the  successive  accumulation  of  the  annual  protecting  film, 
rent  into  ravines  of  slowly  increasing  depth,  and  coloured, 
like  the  rock,  whose  stability  it  begins  to  emulate,  with  the 
grey  or  gold  of  clinging  lichen  and  embroidering  moss. 


CHAPTER  XL 

GENEALOGY. 

1.  Returning,  after  more  than  a  year's  sorrowful  interval, 
to  my  Sicilian  fields, — not  incognisant,  now,  of  some  of  the 
darker  realms  of  Proserpina  ;  and  with  feebler  heart,  and,  it 
may  be,  feebler  wits,  for  wandering  in  her  brighter  ones, — ■ 
I  find  what  I  had  written  by  way  of  sequel  to  the  last  chapter 
somewhat  difficult,  and  extremely  tiresome.  Not  the  less, 
after  giving  fair  notice  of  the  difficulty,  and  asking  due  pardon 
for  the  tiresomeness,  I  am  minded  to  let  it  stand ;  trusting 
to  end,  with  it,  once  for  all,  investigations  of  the  kind.  But 
in  finishing  this  first  volume  of  my  School  Botany,  I  must  try 
to  give  the  reader  some  notion  of  the  plan  of  the  book,  as  it 


Plate  VI. — Radical  Insertion  of  Leaves  of  Ensat^e. 
Iris  Germanica. 


GENEALOGY. 


123 


now,  during  the  time  for  thinking  over  it  which  illness  left 
me,  has  got  itself  arranged  in  my  mind,  within  limits  of  pos- 
sible execution.  And  this  the  rather,  because  I  wish  also  to 
state,  somewhat  more  gravely  than  I  have  yet  done,  the 
grounds  on  which  I  venture  here  to  reject  many  of  the  re- 
ceived names  of  plants  ;  and  to  substitute  others  for  them,  re- 
lating to  entirely  different  attributes  from  those  on  which 
their  present  nomenclature  is  confusedly  edified. 

I  have  already  in  some  measure  given  the  reasons  for  this 
change  ;  *  but  I  feel  that,  for  the  sake  of  those  among  my 
scholars  who  have  laboriously  learned  the  accepted  names,  I 
ought  now  also  to  explain  its  method  more  completely. 

2.  I  call  the  present  system  of  nomenclature  conf  usedly  edi- 
fied, because  it  introduces, — without,  apparently,  any  con- 
sciousness of  the  inconsistency,  and  certainly  with  no  apology 
for  it, — names  founded  sometimes  on  the  history  of  plants, 
sometimes  on  their  qualities,  sometimes  on  their  forms,  some- 
times on  their  products,  and  sometimes  on  their  poetical  as- 
sociations. 

On  their  history — as  '  Gentian '  from  King  Gentius,  and 
Funkia  from  Dr.  Funk. 

On  their  qualities — as  i  Scrophularia '  from  its  (quite  uncer- 
tified) use  in  scrofula. 

On  their  forms — as  the  <  Caryophylls '  from  having  petals 
like  husks  of  nuts. 

On  their  products— as  'Cocos  nucifera'  from  its  nuts. 

And  on  their  poetical  associations, — as  the  Star  of  Bethle- 
hem from  its  imagined  resemblance  to  the  light  of  that  seen 
by  the  Magi. 

3.  Now,  this  variety  of  grounds  for  nomenclature  might 
patiently,  and  even  with  advantage,  be  permitted,  provided 
the  grounds  themselves  were  separately  firm,  and  the  inconsis- 
tency of  method  advisedly  allowed,  and,  in  each  case,  justi- 
fied. If  the  histories  of  King  Gentius  and  Dr.  Funk  are 
indeed  important  branches  of  human  knowledge  ; — if  the 
Scrophulariaceae  do  indeed  cure  King's  Evil ; — if  pinks  be 
best  described  in  their  likeness  to  nuts  ;— and  the  Star  of 

*See  Introduction,  pp.  9-12. 


124 


PROSERPINA. 


Bethlehem  verily  remind  us  of  Christ's  Nativity, — by  all 
means  let  these  and  other  such  names  be  evermore  retained. 
But  if  Dr.  Funk  be  not  a  person  in  any  special  manner  need- 
ing either  stellification  or  florification  ;  if  neither  herb  nor 
flower  can  avail,  more  than  the  touch  of  monarchs,  against 
hereditary  pain  ;  if  it  be  no  better  account  of  a  pink  to  say  it 
is  nut-leaved,  than  of  a  nut  to  say  it  is  pink -leaved  ;  and  if  the 
modern  mind,  incurious  respecting  the  journeys  of  wise  men, 
has  already  confused,  in  its  Bradshaw's  Bible,  the  station  of 
Bethlehem  with  that  of  Bethel,*  it  is  certainly  time  to  take 
some  order  with  the  partly  false,  partly  useless,  and  partly  for- 
gotten literature  of  the  Fields  ;  and,  before  we  bow  our  chil- 
dren's memories  to  the  burden  of  it,  ensure  that  there  shall 
be  matter  worth  carriage  in  the  load. 

4.  And  farther,  in  attempting  such  a  change,  Ave  must  be 
clear  in  our  own  minds  whether  we  wish  our  nomenclature  to 
tell  us  something  about  the  plant  itself,  or  only  to  tell  us  the 
place  it  holds  in  relation  to  other  plants :  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  Herb-Robert,  would  it  be  well  to  christen  it,  shortly,  c  Rob 
Roy,'  because  it  is  pre-eminently  red,  and  so  have  done  with 
it ; — or  rather  to  dwell  on  its  family  connections,  and  call  it 
'  Macgregoraceous '  ? 

5.  Before  wTe  can  wisely  decide  this  point,  we  must  resolve 
w7hether  our  botany  is  intended  mainly  to  be  useful  to  the 
vulgar,  or  satisfactory  to  the  scientific  elite.  For  if  we  give 
names  characterizing  individuals,  the  circle  of  plants  which 
any  country  possesses  may  be  easily  made  known  to  the  chil- 
dren who  live  in  it:  but  if  we  give  names  founded  on  the 
connexion  between  these  and  others  at  the  Antipodes,  the 
parish  school-master  will  certainly  have  double  work ;  and  it 
may  be  doubted  greatly  whether  the  parish  school-boy,  at  the 
end  of  the  lecture,  will  have  half  as  many  ideas. 

6.  Nevertheless,  when  the  features  of  any  great  order  of 
plants  are  constant,  and,  on  the  wThole,  represented  with  great 
clearness  both  in  cold  and  warm  climates,  it  may  be  desirable 
to  express  this  their  citizenship  of  the  world  in  definite  nomen- 
clature.   But  my  own  method,  so  far  as  hitherto  developed, 

*  See  Sowerby's  nomenclature  of  the  flower,  vol.  ix.,  plate  1703. 


Plate  VII. — Contorta  Purpurea.    Purple  Wreath-Wort. 


GENEALOGY, 


125 


consists  essentially  in  fastening  the  thoughts  of  the  pupil 
on  the  special  character  of  the  plant,  in  the  place  where 
he  is  likely  to  see  it ;  and  therefore,  in  expressing  the  power 
of  its  race  and  order  in  the  wider  world,  rather  by  refer- 
ence to  mythological  associations  than  to  botanical  struct- 
ure. 

7.  For  instance,  Plate  VII.  represents,  of  its  real  size,  an  or- 
dinary spring  flower  in  our  English  mountain  fields.  It  is  an 
average  example, — not  one  of  rare  size  under  rare  conditions, 
— rather  smaller  than  the  average,  indeed,  that  I  might  get  it 
well  into  my  plate.  It  is  one  of  the  flowers  whose  names  I 
think  good  to  change  ;  but  I  look  carefully  through  the  exist- 
ing titles  belonging  to  it  and  its  fellows,  that  I  may  keep  all 
I  expediently  can.  I  find,  in  the  first  place,  that  Linnaeus 
called  one  group  of  its  relations,  Ophryds,  from  Ophrys, — 
Greek  for  the  eyebrow7, — on  account  of  their  resemblance  to 
the  brow  of  an  animal  frowning,  or  to  the  overshadowing 
casque  of  a  helmet.  I  perceive  this  to  be  really  a  very  general 
aspect  of  the  flower  ;  and  therefore,  no  less  than  in  respect  to 
Linnaeus,  I  adopt  this  for  the  total  name  of  the  order,  and 
call  them  '  Ophrydas/  or,  shortly,  £  Ophryds.' 

8.  Secondly  :  so  far  as  I  know  these  flowers  myseK,  I  per- 
ceive them  to  fall  practically  into  three  divisions, — one,  grow- 
ing in  Bnglish  meadows  and  Alpine  pastures,  and  always  add- 
ing to  their  beauty  ;  another,  growing  in  all  sorts  of  places, 
very  ugly  itself,  and  adding  to  the  ugliness  of  its  indiscrimi- 
nated  haunts  ;  and  a  third,  growing  mostly  up  in  the  air,  with 
as  little  root  as  possible,  and  of  gracefully  fantastic  forms, 
such  as  this  kind  of  nativity  and  habitation  might  presuppose. 
For  the  present,  I  am  satisfied  to  give  names  to  these  three 
groups  only.  There  may  be  plenty  of  others  which  I  do  not 
know,  and  which  other  people  may  name,  according  to  their 
knowledge.  But  in  all  these  three  kinds  known  to  me,  I  per- 
ceive one  constant  characteristic  to  be  some  manner  of  distor- 
tion ;  and  I  desire  that  fact, — marking  a  spiritual  (in  my  sense 
of  the  word)  character  of  extreme  mystery, — to  be  the  first 
enforced  on  the  mind  of  the  young  learner.  It  is  exhibited  to 
the  English  child,  primarily,  in  the  form  of  the  stalk  of  each 


126 


PROSERPINA. 


flower,  attaching  it  to  the  central  virga.  This  stalk  is  always 
twisted  once  and  a  half  round,  as  if  somebody  had  been  try- 
ing to  wring  the  blossom  off ;  and  the  name  of  the  family,  in 
Proserpina,  will  therefore  be  £  Contorta '  *  in  Latin,  and 
'  "Wreathe-wort '  in  English. 

Farther  :  the  beautiful  power  of  the  one  I  have  drawn  in 
its  spring  life,  is  in  the  opposition  of  its  dark  purple  to  the 
primrose  in  England,  and  the  pale  yellow  anemone  in  the 
Alps.  And  its  individual  name  will  be,  therefore,  £  Contorta 
purpurea ' — Purple  Wreathe-wort. 

And  in  drawing  it,  I  take  care  to  dwell  on  this  strength  of 
its  colour,  and  to  show  thoroughly  that  it  is  a  dark  blossom,  f 
before  I  trouble  myself  about  its  minor  characters. 

*  9.  The  second  group  of  this  kind  of  flowers  live,  as  I  said, 
in  all  sorts  of  places  ;  but  mostly,  I  think,  in  disagreeable 
ones, — torn  and  irregular  ground,  under  alternations  of  un- 
wholesome heat  and  shade,  and  among  swarms  of  nasty  in- 
sects. I  cannot  yet  venture  on  any  bold  general  statement 
about  them,  but  I  think  that  is  mostly  their  way  ;  and  at  all 
events,  they  themselves  are  in  the  habit  of  dressing  in  livid 
and  unpleasant  colours ;  and  are  distinguished  from  all  other 
flowers  by  twisting,  not  only  their  stalks,  but  one  of  their 
petals,  not  once  and  a  half  only,  but  two  or  three  times  round, 
and  putting  it  far  out  at  the  same  time,  as  a  foul  jestdr  would 
put  out  his  tongue  :  while  also  the  singular  power  of  grotesque 
mimicry,  which,  though  strong  also  in  the  other  groups  of 
their  race,  seems  in  the  others  more  or  less  playful,  is,  in 
these,  definitely  degraded,  and,  in  aspect,  malicious. 

10.  Now  I  find  the  Latin  name  '  Satyrium  '  attached  already 
to  one  sort  of  these  flowers  ;  and  we  cannot  possibly  have  a 
better  one  for  all  of  them.  It  is  true  that,  in  its  first  Greek 
form,  Dioscorides  attaches  it  to  a  white,  not  a  livid,  flower  ; 
and  I  dare  say  there  are  some  white  ones  of  the  breed  :  but, 
in  its  full  sense,  the  term  is  ^actly  right  for  the  entire  group 

*  Linnaeus  used  this  term  for  the  oleanders  ;  but  evidently  with  less 
accuracy  than  usual. 

f  "  &vQr)  irop<pvpoefirj "  says  Dioscorides,  of  the  race  generally, — tut 
u  &i>6r)  8e  viroir6p<pvpcL  n  of  this  particular  one. 


GENEALOGY. 


127 


of  ugly  blossoms  of  which  the  characteristic  is  the  spiral  curve 
and  protraction  of  their  central  petal :  and  every  other  form 
of  Satyric  ugliness  which  I  find  among  the  Ophryds,  whatever 
its  colour,  will  be  grouped  with  them.  And  I  make  them 
central,  because  this  humour  runs  through  the  whole  order, 
and  is,  indeed,  their  distinguishing  sign. 

11.  Then  the  third  group,  living  actually  in  the  air,  and 
only  holding  fast  by,  without  nourishing  itself  from,  the 
ground,  rock,  or  tree-trunk  on  which  it  is  rooted,  may  of 
course  most  naturally  and  accurately  be  called  '  Aeria,'  as  it 
has  long  been  popularly  known  in  English  by  the  name  of 
Air-plant. 

Thus  we  have  one  general  name  for  all  these  creatures, 
'  Ophryd  ' ;  and  three  family  or  group  names,  Contorta,  Saty- 
rium,  and  Aeria, — every  one  of  these  titles  containing  as  much 
accurate  fact  about  the  thing  named  as  I  can  possibly  get 
packed  into  their  syllables  ;  and  I  will  trouble  my  young 
readers  with  no  more  divisions  of  the  order.  And  if  their 
parents,  tutors,  or  governors,  after  this  fair  warning,  choose 
to  make  them  learn,  instead,  the  seventy-seven  different  names 
with  which  botanist-heraldries  have  beautifully  ennobled  the 
family, — all  I  can  say  is,  let  them  at  least  begin  by  learning 
them  themselves.  They  will  be  found  in  due  order  in  pages 
1084,  1085  of  Loudon's  Cyclopaedia.* 

12.  But  now,  farther :  the  student  will  observe  that  the 
name  of  the  total  order  is  Greek  ;  while  the  three  family 
are  ones  Latin,  although  the  central  one  is  originally  Greek 
also. 

I  adopt  this  as  far  as  possible  for  a  law  through  my  whole 
plant  nomenclature. 

*  I  offer  a  sample  of  two  dozen  for  good  papas  and  mammas  to  begin 
with : — 

Angraecum.  Corallorrhiza.  Ornitliidium.  Prescotia. 

Anisopetalum.  Cryptarrhena.  Ornithocephalus.  Renanthera. 

Brassavola.  Eulophia.  Platanthera.  Rodriguezia. 

Brassia.  Gymnadenia.  Pleurothallis.  Stenorhyncus. 

Caelogyne.  Microstylis.  Pogonia.  Trizenxis. 

Calopogon.  Octomeria.  Polystachya.  Xylobium. 


128 


PROSERPINA. 


13.  Farther :  the  terminations  of  the  Latin  family  names 
will  be,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  masculine,  feminine,  and 
neuter  forms,  us,  a,  um,  with  these  following  attached  condi* 
tions. 

(i.)  Those  terminating  in  *  us,'  though  often  of  feminine 
words,  as  the  central  Arbor,  will  indicate  either  real  masculine 
strength  (quercus,  laurus),  or  conditions  of  dominant  majesty 
(cedrus),  of  stubbornness  and  enduring  force  (Crataegus),  or 
of  peasant-like  commonalty  and  hardship  (j uncus)  ;  softened, 
as  it  may  sometimes  happen,  into  gentleness  and  beneficence 
(thymus).  The  occasional  forms  in  '  er '  and  '  il '  will  have 
similar  power  (acer,  basil). 

(n.)  Names  with  the  feminine  termination  'a,'  if  they  are 
real  names  of  girls,  will  always  mean  flowers  that  are  perfectly 
pretty  and  perfectly  good  (Lucia,  Viola,  Margarita,  Clarissa). 
Names  terminating  in  '  a '  which  are  not  also  accepted  names 
of  girls,  may  sometimes  be  none  the  less  honourable,  (Pri- 
mula, Campanula,)  but  for  the  most  part  will  signify  either 
plants  that  are  only  good  and  worthy  in  a  nursy  sort  of  way, 
(Salvia,)  or  that  are  good  without  being  pretty,  (Lavandula,) 
or  pretty  without  being  good,  (Kalmia).  But  no  name  ter- 
minating in  £a'  will  be  attached  to  a  plant  that  is  neither 
good  nor  pretty. 

(in.)  The  neuter  names  terminating  in  c  um  '  will  always  in- 
dicate some  power  either  of  active  or  suggestive  evil,  (Conium. 
Solanum,  Satyrium,)  or  a  relation,  more  or  less  definite,  to 
death  ;  but  this  relation  to  death  may  sometimes  be  noble,  or 
pathetic, — "  which  to-day  is,  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the 
oven," — Lilium. 

But  the  leading  position  of  these  neuters  in  the  plant's 
double  name  must  be  noticed  by  students  unacquainted  with 
Latin,  in  order  to  distinguish  them  from  plural  genitives, 
which  will  always,  of  course,  be  the  second  word,  (Francesca 
Fontium,  Francesca  of  the  Springs.) 

14.  Names  terminating  in  'is'  and  'e,'  if  definitely  names 
of  women,  (Iris,  Amaryllis,  Alcestis,  Daphne,)  will  always 
signify  flowers  of  great  beauty,  and  noble  historic  association. 
If  not  definitely  names  of  women,  they  will  yet  indicate 


GENEALOGY, 


129 


soma  specialty  of  sensitiveness,  or  association  with  legend 
(Berberis,  Clematis.)    No  neuters  in  'e  '  will  be  admitted. 

15.  Participial  terminations  (Impatiens),  with  neuters  in 
f  en '  (Cyclamen),  will  always  be  descriptive  of  some  special 
quality  or  form, — leaving  it  indeterminate  if  good  or  bad, 
until  explained.  It  will  be  manifestly  impossible  to  limit 
either  these  neuters,  or  the  feminines  in  c  is '  to  Latin  forms  ; 
but  we  shall  always  know  by  their  termination  that  they  can- 
not be  generic  names,  if  we  are  strict  in  forming  these  last  on 
a  given  method. 

16.  How  little  method  there  is  in  our  present  formation  of 
them,  I  am  myself  more  and  more  surprised  as  I  consider.  A 
child  is  shown  a  rose,  and  told  that  he  is  to  call  every  flower 
like  that,  \  Kosaceous '  ;  *  he  is  next  shown  a  lily,  and  told 
that  he  is  to  call  every  flower  like  that,  ' Liliaceous ' ; — so  far 
well ;  but  he  is  next  shown  a  daisy,  and  is  not  at  all  allowed 
to  call  every  flower  like  that  'Daisaceous,'  but  he  must  call  it, 
like  the  fifth  order  of  architecture,  £  Composite '  ;  and  being 
next  shown  a  pink,  he  is  not  allowed  to  call  other  pinks 
'  Pinkaceous,'  but  !  Nut-leafed ■ ;  and  being  next  shown  a 
pease-blossom,  he  is  not  allowed  to  call  other  pease-blos- 
soms '  Peasaceous,'  but,  in  a  brilliant  burst  of  botanical 
imagination,  he  is  incited  to  call  it  by  two  names  instead  of 
one,  '  Butterfly-aeeous  '  from  its  flower,  and  '  Pod-aceous  • 
from  its  seed  ; — the  inconsistency  of  the  terms  thus  enforced 
upon  him  being  perfected  in  their  inaccuracy,  for  a  daisy  is 
not  one  whit  more  composite  than  Queen  of  the  meadow,  or 
Jura  Jacinth  ;  f  and  '  legumen  '  is  not  Latin  for  a  pod,  but 
f  siliqua,'— so  that  no  good  scholar  could  remember  Virgil's 
*  siliqua  quassante  legumen,'  without  overthrowing  all  his 
Pisan  nomenclature. 

17.  Farther.  If  we  ground  our  names  of  the  higher  orders 
on  the  distinctive  characters  of  form  in  plants,  these  are  so 
many,  and  so  subtle,  that  we  are  at  once  involved  in  more 
investigations  than  a  young  learner  has  ever  time  to  follow 
successfully,  and  they  must  be  at  all  times  liable  to  disloca- 

*  Compare  Chapter  V. ,  §'7. 

f  u  Jacinthus  Jurae,1'  changed  from  "  Hyacinthus  Comosus." 


130 


PBOSERPINA. 


tions  and  rearrangements  on  the  discovery  of  any  new  link  in 
the  infinitely  entangled  chain.  But  if  we  found  our  higher 
nomenclature  at  once  on  historic  fact,  and  relative  conditions 
of  climate  and  character,  rather  than  of  form,  we  may  at 
once  distribute  our  flora  into  unalterable  groups,  to  which 
we  may  add  at  our  pleasure,  but  which  will  never  need  dis- 
turbance ;  far  less,  reconstruction. 

18.  For  instance, — and  to  begin, — it  is  an  historical  fact 
that  for  many  centuries  the  English  nation  believed  that  the 
Founder  of  its  religion,  spiritually,  by  the  mouth  of  the 
King  who  spake  of  all  herbs,  had  likened  himself  to  two 
flowers, — the  Rose  of  Sharon,  and  Lily  of  the  Valley.  The 
fact  of  this  belief  is  one  of  the  most  important  in  the  history 
of  England, — that  is  to  say,  of  the  mind  or  heart  of  England  : 
and  it  is  connected  solemnly  with  the  heart  of  Italy  also,  by 
the  closing  cantos  of  the  Paradiso. 

I  think  it  well  therefore  that  our  two  first  generic,  or  at 
least  commandant,  names  heading  the  out-laid  and  in-laid 
divisions  of  plants,  should  be  of  the  rose  and  lily,  with  such 
meaning  in  them  as  may  remind  us  of  this  fact  in  the  history 
of  human  mind. 

It  is  also  historical  that  the  personal  appearing  of  this 
Master  of  our  religion  was  spoken  of  by  our  chief  religious 
teacher  in  these  terms:  " The  Grace  of  God,  that  bringeth 
salvation,  hath  appeared  unto  all  men."  And  it  is  a  constant 
fact  that  this  6  grace  '  or  '  favor '  of  God  is  spoken  of  as  "  giv- 
ing us  to  eat  of  the  Tree  of  Life." 

19.  Now,  comparing  the  botanical  facts  I  have  to  express, 
with  these  historical  ones,  I  find  that  the  rose  tribe  has  been 
formed  among  flowers,  not  in  distant  and  monstrous  geologic 
seras,  but  in  the  human  epoch  ; — that  its  6  grace '  or  favor  has 
been  in  all  countries  so  felt  as  to  cause  its  acceptance  every- 
where for  the  most  perfect  physical  type  of  womanhood  ; — 
and  that  the  characteristic  fruit  of  the  tribe  is  so  sweet,  that 
it  has  become  symbolic  at  once  of  the  subtlest  temptation, 
and  the  kindest  ministry  to  the  earthly  passion  of  the  human 
race.    "  Comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of  love." 

20.  Therefore  I  shall  call  the  entire  order  of  these  flowers 


GENEALOGY. 


131 


'Charites/  (Graces),  and  there  will  be  divided  into  these 
five  genera,  Kosa,  Persica,  Pomum,  Kubra,  and  Fragaria. 
Which  sequence  of  names  I  do  not  think  the  young  learner 
will  have  difficulty  in  remembering  ;  nor  in  understanding 
why  I  distinguish  the  central  group  by  the  fruit  instead  of 
the  flower.  And  if  he  once  clearly  master  the  structure 
and  relations  of  these  five  genera,  he  will  have  no  difficulty 
in  attaching  to  them,  in  a  satellitic  or  subordinate  manner, 
such  inferior  groups  as  that  of  the  Silver-weed,  or  the  Tor- 
mentilla  ;  but  all  he  will  have  to  learn  by  heart  and  rote,  will 
be  these  six  names ;  the  Greek  Master-name,  Charites,  and 
the  five  generic  names,  in  each  case  belonging  to  plants,  as 
he  will  soon  find,  of  extreme  personal  interest  to  him. 

21.  I  have  used  the  word  '  Order  ■  as  the  name  of  our 
widest  groups,  in  preference  to  '  Class,'  because  these  widest 
groups  will  not  always  include  flowers  like  each  other  in 
form,  or  equal  to  each  other  in  vegetative  rank  ;  but  they  will 
be  '  Orders/  literally  like  those  of  any  religious  or  chivalric 
association,  having  some  common  link  rather  intellectual  than 
national, — the  Charites,  for  instance,  linked  by  their  kind- 
ness,— the  Oreiades,  by  their  mountain  seclusion,  as  Sisters 
of  Charity  or  Monks  of  the  Chartreuse,  irrespective  of  ties  of 
relationship.  Then  beneath  these  orders  will  come,  what 
may  be  rightly  called,  either  as  above  in  Greek  derivation, 
'  Genera/  or  in  Latin,  '  Gentes/  for  which,  however,  I  choose 
the  Latin  word,  because  Genus  is  disagreeably  liable  to  be 
confused  on  the  ear  with  '  genius ' ;  but  Gens,  never  ;  and 
also  *  nomen  gentile  '  is  a  clearer  and  better  expression  than 
'  nomen  generosum/  and  I  will  not  coin  the  barbarous  one, 
'  Genericum.'  The  name  of  the  Gens,  (as  '  Lucia/)  with  an 
attached  epithet,  as  '  Verna/  will,  in  most  cases,  be  enough  to 
characterize  the  individual  flower  ;  but  if  farther  subdivision 
be  necessary,  the  third  order  will  be  that  of  Families,  indi- 
cated by  a  £  nomen  familiare '  added  in  the  third  place  of 
nomenclature,  as  Lucia  Verna, — Borealis  ;  and  no  farther 
subdivision  will  ever  be  admitted.  I  avoid  the  word  'species' 
— originally  a  bad  one,  and  lately  vulgarized  beyond  endur- 
ance— altogether.    And  varieties  belonging  to  narrow  locali- 


132 


PROSERPINA. 


ties,  or  induced  by  horticulture,  may  be  named  as  they  please 
by  the  peoj}le  living  near  the  spot,  or  by  the  gardener  who 
grows  them  ;  but  will  not  be  acknowledged  by  Proserpina. 
Nevertheless,  the  arbitrary  reduction  under  Ordines,  Gentes, 
and  Familise,  is  always  to  be  remembered  as  one  of  massive 
practical  convenience  only ;  and  the  more  subtle  arbores- 
cence  of  the  infinitely  varying  structures  may  be  followed, 
like  a  human  genealogy,  as  far  as  we  please,  afterwards  ;  when 
once  we  have  got  our  common  plants  clearly  arranged  and 
intelligibly  named. 

22.  But  now  wre  find  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a  newr 
difficulty,  the  greatest  wre  have  to  deal  wTith  in  the  whole 
matter. 

One  new  nomenclature,  to  be  thoroughly  good,  must  be 
acceptable  to  scholars  in  the  five  great  languages,  Greek, 
Latin,  French,  Italian,  and  English  ;  and  it  must  be  accepta- 
ble by  them  in  teaching  the  native  children  of  each  country. 
I  shall  not  be  satisfied,  unless  I  can  feel  that  the  little  maids 
who  gather  their  first  violets  under  the  Acropolis  rock,  may 
receive  for  them  iEschylean  words  again  with  joy.  I  shall 
not  be  content,  unless  the  mothers  watching  their  children  at 
play  in  the  Ceramicus  of  Paris,  under  the  scarred  ruins  of  her 
Kings'  palace,  may  yet  teach  them  there  to  know  the  flowers 
which  the  Maid  of  Orleans  gathered  at  Domremy.  I  shall 
not  be  satisfied  unless  every  word  I  ask  from  the  lips  of  the 
children  of  Florence  and  Rome,  may  enable  them  better  to 
praise  the  flowers  that  are  chosen  by  the  hand  of  Matilda,* 
and  bloom  around  the  tomb  of  Virgil. 

23.  Now  in  this  first  example  of  nomenclature,  the  Master- 
name,  being  pure  Greek,  may  easily  be  accepted  by  Greek 
children,  remembering  that  certain  also  of  their  own  poets,  if 
they  did  not  call  the  flower  a  Grace  itself,  at  least  thought  of 
it  as  giving  gladness  to  the  Three  in  their  dances,  f  But  for 
French  children  the  word  'Grace  'has  been  doubly  and  trebly 
corrupted ;  first,  by  entirely  false  theological  scholarship, 

*  "  Cantando,  e  scegliendo  fior  di  fiore 

Onde  era  picta  tutta  la  sua  via." — Purg.,  xxviii.  35. 


GENEALOGY. 


133 


mistaking  the  '  Favor '  or  Grace  done  by  God  to  good  men, 
for  the  '  Misericordia,'  or  mercy,  shown  by  Him  to  bad  ones  ; 
and  so,  in  practical  life,  finally  substituting  '  Grace  '  as  a  word 
of  extreme  and  mortal  prayer,  for  '  Merci,'  and  of  late  using 
'  Merci '  in  a  totally  ridiculous  and  perverted  power,  for  the 
giving  of  thanks  (or  refusal  of  offered  good)  :  while  the  liter- 
ally derived  word  '  Charite '  has  become,  in  the  modern  mind, 
a  gift,  whether  from  God  or  man,  only  to  the  wretched,  never 
to  the  happy  :  and  lastly,  £  Grace '  in  its  physical  sense  has 
been  perverted,  by  their  social  vulgarit}',  into  an  idea,  whether 
with  respect  to  form  or  motion,  commending  itself  rather  to 
the  ballet-master  than  either  to  the  painter  or  the  priest. 

For  these  reasons,  the  Master  name  of  this  family,  for  my 
French  pupils,  must  be  simply  'Rhodiades,'  which  will  bring, 
for  them,  the  entire  group  of  names  into  easily  remembered 
symmetry  ;  and  the  English  form  of  the  same  name,  Rhodiad, 
is  to  be  used  by  English  scholars  also  for  all  tribes  of  this 
group  except  the  five  principal  ones. 

24.  Farther,  in  every  gens  of  plants,  one  will  be  chosen  as 
the  representative,  which,  if  any,  will  be  that  examined  and 
described  in  the  course  of  this  work,  if  I  have  opportunity  of 
doing  so. 

This  representative  flower  will  always  be  a  wild  one,  and  of 
the  simplest  form  which  completely  expresses  the  character  of 
the  plant ;  existing  divinely  and  unchangeably  from  age  to 
age,  un grieved  by  man's  neglect,  and  inflexible  by  his  power. 

And  this  divine  character  will  be  expressed  by  the  epithet 
1  Sacred,'  taking  the  sense  in  which  we  attach  it  to  a  dominant 
and  christened  majesty,  when  it  belongs  to  the  central  type 
of  any  forceful  order  ; — '  Quercus  sacra,'  '  Laurus  sacra,'  etc.. 
— the  word  'Benedieta,'  or  '  Benedictus,'  being  used  instead, 
if  the  plant  be  too  humble  to  bear,  without  some  discrepancy 
and  unbecomingness,  the  higher  title  ;  as  6  Carduus  Bene- 
dictus/ Holy  Thistle. 

25.  Among  the  gentes  of  flowers  bearing  girls'  names,  the 
dominant  one  will  be  simply  called  the  Queen,  1  Rose  Regina,' 
'Rose  the  Queen  '  (the  English  wild  rose)  ;  'Clarissa  Regina,' 
'  Clarissa  the  Queen '  (Mountain  Pink)  ;   *  Lucia  Regina,5 


134 


PROSERPINA. 


'  Lucy  the  Queen '  (Spring  Gentian),  or  in  simpler  English, 
'Lucy  of  Teesdale,'  as 'Harry  of  Monmouth.'  The  ruling 
flowers  of  groups  which  bear  names  not  yet  accepted  for 
names  of  girls,  will  be  called  simply  '  Domina,'  or  shortly 
'  Donna/  'Rubra  domina'  (wild  raspberry)  :  the  wild  straw- 
berry, because  of  her  use  in  heraldry,  will  bear  a  name  of  her 
own,  exceptional,  '  Cora  coronalis. 

26.  These  main  points  being  understood,  and  concessions 
made,  we  may  first  arrange  the  greater  orders  of  land  plants 
in  a  group  of  twelve,  easily  remembered,  and  with  very  little 
forcing.  There  must  be  some  forcing  always  to  get  things 
into  quite  easily  tenable  form,  for  Nature  always  has  her  ins 
and  outs.  But  it  is  curious  how  fitly  and  frequently  the  num- 
ber of  twelve  may  be  used  for  memoria  technica  ;  and  in  this 
instance  the  Greek  derivative  names  fall  at  once  into  harmony 
with  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  Greek  mythology,  leading  on 
to  early  Christian  tradition. 

27.  Their  series  will  be,  therefore,  as  follows :  the  princi- 
pal subordinate  groups  being  at  once  placed  under  each  of 
the  great  ones.  The  reasons  for  occasional  appearance  of 
inconsistency  will  be  afterwards  explained,  and  the  English 
and  French  forms  given  in  each  case  are  the  terms  which 
would  be  used  in  answering  the  rapid  question,  '  Of  what 
order  is  this  flower?'  the  answer  being,  It  is  a  'Cyllenid,'  a 
'  Pleiad,'  or  a  '  Vestal,'  as  one  would  answer  of  a  person,  he  is 
a  Knight  of  St.  John  or  Monk  of  St.  Benedict ;  while  to  the 
question,  of  what  gens,  we  answer,  a  Stella  or  an  Erica,  as 
one  would  answer  of  a  person,  a  Stuart  or  Plantagenet. 

i.  CHABITES. 
Eng.  CHARIS.    Fr.  RHODIADE. 
Rosa.    Persica.    Pomum.    Rubra.  Fragaria. 

n.  TJRANIDES. 
Eng.  URANID.    Fr.  URANIDE. 
Lucia.    Campanula.  Convoluta. 


GENEALOGY. 


135 


in.  CYLLENIDES. 
Eng.  CYLLENID.    Fr.  NEPHELIDE. 
Stella.    Francesca.  Primula. 

iv.  OREIADES. 

Eng.  OREIAD.    Fr.  OREADE. 
Erica.    Myrtilla.  Aurora. 

v.  PLEIADES. 

Eng.  PLEIAD.    Fr.  PLEIADE. 
Silvia.  Anemone. 

vi.  ARTEMIDES. 
Eng.  ARTEMID.    Fr.  ARTEMIDE. 
Clarissa.    Lychnis.     Scintilla.  Mica. 

vn.  VESTALES. 
Eng.  VESTAL.     Fr.  VESTALE. 
Mentha.    Melitta.    Basil.    Salvia.    Lavandula.  Thymus. 

vm.  CYTHERIDES. 
Eng.  CYTHERID.     Fr.  CYTHERIDE. 
Viola.    Veronica.  Giulietta. 

ix.  HELIADES. 

Eng.  ALCESTID.    Fr.  HELIADE. 
Clytia.    Margarita.    Alcestis.    Falconia.  Carduus. 

x.  DELPHIDES. 

Eng.  DELPHID.     Fr.  DELPHIDE. 
Laurus.    Granata.  Myrtus. 

xi.  HESPERIDES. 

Eng.  HESPERID.    Fr.  HESPERIDE. 
Aurantia.  Aglee. 

xii.  ATHEN AIDES. 
Eng.  ATHENAID.    Fr.  ATHENAIDEL 
Olea.  Fraxinus. 


136 


PROSERPINA. 


I  will  shortly  note  the  changes  of  name  in  their  twelve 
orders,  and  the  reasons  for  them. 

i.  Charites. — The  only  change  made  in  the  nomenclature 
of  this  order  is  the  slight  one  of  *  rubra '  for  '  rubus  ' :  partly 
to  express  true  sisterhood  with  the  other  Charites  ;  partly  to 
enforce  the  idea  of  redness,  as  characteristic  of  the  race,  both 
in  the  lovely  purple  and  russet  of  their  winter  leafage,  and  in 
the  exquisite  bloom  of  scarlet  on  the  stems  in  strong  young 
shoots.  They  have  every  right  to  be  placed  among  the 
Charites,  first  because  the  raspberry  is  really  a  more  impor- 
tant fruit  in  domestic  economy  than  the  strawberry  ;  and, 
secondly,  because  the  wild  bramble  is  often  in  its  wandering- 
sprays  even  more  graceful  than  the  rose;  and  in  blossom  and 
fruit  the  best  autumnal  gift  that  English  Nature  has  appointed 
for  her  village  children. 

ii.  Uranides. — Not  merely  because  they  are  all  of  the  color 
of  the  sky,  but  also  sacred  to  Urania  in  their  divine  purity. 
'  Convoluta'  instead  of  6  convolvulus,'  chiefly  for  the  sake  of 
euphony  ;  but  also  because  pervinca  is  to  be  included  in  tma 
group. 

in.  Cyllenides. — Named  from  Mount  Cyllene  in  Arcadia, 
because  the  three  races  included  in  the  order  alike  delight 
in  rocky  ground,  and  in  the  cold  or  moist  air  of  mountain- 
clouds. 

iv.  Oreiades. — Described  in  next  chapter. 

v.  Pleiades. — From  the  habit  of  the  flowers  belonging  to 
this  order  to  get  into  bright  local  clusters.  Silvia,  for  the 
wood- sorrel,  will,  I  hope,  be  an  acceptable  change  to  my  girl- 
readers. 

vi.  Artemides. — Dedicate  to  Artemis  for  their  expression 
of  energy,  no  less  than  purity.  This  character  was  rightly 
felt  in  them  by  whoever  gave  the  name  '  Dianthus  '  to  their 
leading  race  ;  a  name  which  I  should  have  retained  if  it  had 
not  been  bad  Greek.  I  wish  them,  by  their  name  '  Clarissa ' 
to  recall  the  memory  of  St.  Clare,  as  '  Francesca '  that  of  St. 
Francis.*    The  £  issa,'  not  without  honour  to  the  greatest  of 

*  The  four  races  of  this  order  are  more  naturally  distinct  than  botan- 
ists have  recognized.    In  Clarissa5  the  petal  is  cloven  into  a  fringe  at 


GENEALOGY, 


137 


our  English  moral  story-tellers,  is  added  for  the  practical 
reason,  that  I  think  the  sound  will  fasten  in  the  minds  of  chil- 
dren the  essential  characteristic  of  the  race,  the  cutting  of  the 
outer  edge  of  the  petal  as  if  with  scissors. 

vii.  Vestales. — I  allow  this  Latin  form,  because  Hestiades 
would  have  been  confused  with  Heliades.  The  order  is 
named  •  of  the  hearth/  from  its  manifold  domestic  use,  and 
modest  blossoming. 

viii.  Cytherides, — Dedicate  to  Venus,  but  in  all  purity 
and  peace  of  thought.  Giulietta,  for  the  coarse,  and  more 
than  ordinarily  false,  Polygala. 

ix.  Heliades. — The  sun-flowers.*  In  English,  Alcestid,  in 
honor  to  Chaucer  and  the  Daisy. 

x.  Delphides. — Sacred  to  Apollo.  Granata,  changed  from 
Punica,  in  honor  to  Granada  and  the  Moors. 

xi.  Hesperides. — Already  a  name  given  to  the  order.  Aegie, 
prettier  and  more  classic  than  Limonia,  includes  the  idea  of 
brightness  in  the  blossom. 

xii.  Athenaides. — I  take  Fraxinus  into  this  group,  because 
the  mountain  ash,  in  its  hawthorn-scented  flower,  scarletest  of 
berries,  and  exquisitely  formed  and  finished  leafage,  belongs 
wholly  to  the  floral  decoration  of  our  native  rocks,  and  is  asso- 
ciated with  their  human  interests,  though  lightly,  not  less 
spiritually,  than  the  olive  with  the  mind  of  Greece. 

28.    The  remaining  groups  are  in  great  part  natural ;  but  I 

the  outer  edge  ;  in  Lychnis,  the  petal  is  terminated  in  two  rounded 
lobes  and  the  fringe  withdrawn  to  the  top  of  the  limb  ;  in  Scintilla,  the 
petal  is  divided  into  two  sharp  lobes,  without  any  fringe  of  the  limb  ; 
and  in  Mica,  the  minute  and  scarcely  visible  flowers  have  simple  and 
far  separate  petals.  The  confusion  of  these  four  great  natural  races 
under  the  vulgar  or  accidental  botanical  names  of  spittle-plant,  shore- 
plant,  sand-p'ant,  etc.,  has  become  entirely  intolerable  by  any  rational 
student  ;  but  the  names  '  Scintilla,'  substituted  for  Stellaria,  and  '  Mica  ' 
for  the  utterly  ridiculous  and  probably  untrue  Sagina,  connect  them- 
selves naturally  with  Lychnis,  in  expression  of  the  luminous  power  of 
the  white  and  sparkling  blossoms. 

*  Clytia  will  include  all  the  true  sun-nowers,  and  Falconia  the 
hawkweeds ;  but  I  have  not  yet  completed  the  analysis  of  this  vast 
and  complex  order,  so  as  to  determine  the  limits  of  Margarita  and 
Alcestis. 


138 


PROSERPINA. 


separate  for  subsequent  study  five  orders  of  supreme  domestio 
utility,  the  Mallows,  Currants,  Pease,*  Cresses,  and  Cranesbills, 
from  those  which,  either  in  fruit  or  blossom,  are  for  finer 
pleasure  or  higher  beauty.  I  think  it  will  be  generally  inter- 
esting  for  children  to  learn  those  five  names  as  an  easy  lesson, 
and  gradually  discover,  wondering,  the  world  that  they  in- 
clude.   I  will  give  their  terminology  at  length,  separately. 

29.  One  cannot,  in  all  groups,  have  all  the  divisions  of  equal 
importance  ;  the  Mallows  are  only  placed  with  the  other  four 
for  their  great  value  in  decoration  of  cottage  gardens  in  au- 
tumn :  and  their  softly  healing  qualities  as  a  tribe.  They 
will  mentally  connect  the  whole  useful  group  with  the  three 
great  iEsculapiadse,  Cinchona,  Coffea,  and  Camellia. 

30.  Taking  next  the  water-plants,  crowned  in  the  DROSID2E, 
which  include  the  five  great  families,  Juncus,  Jacinthus,  Ama- 
ryllis, Iris,  and  Lilium,  and  are  masculine  in  their  Greek  name 
because  their  two  first  groups,  Juncus  and  Jacinthus,  are  mas- 
culine, I  gather  together  the  three  orders  of  TRITONIDES, 
which  are  notably  trefoil ;  the  NAIADES,  notably  quatrefoil, 
but  for  which  I  keep  their  present  pretty  name  ;  and  the 
BATRACHXDES,t  notably  cinqfoil,  for  which  I  keep  their 
present  ugly  one,  only  changing  it  from  Latin  into  Greek. 

31.  I  am  not  sure  of  being  forgiven  so  readily  for  putting 
the  Grasses,  Sedges,  Mosses,  and  Lichens  together,  under 
the  great  general  head  of  Demetridse.  But  it  seems  to  me 
the  mosses  and  lichens  belongs  no  less  definitely  to  Demeter, 
in  being  the  first  gatherers  of  earth  on  rock,  and  the  first  cov- 
erers  of  its  sterile  surface,  than  the  grass  which  at  lasfc  pre- 
pares it  to  the  foot  and  to  the  food  of  man.  And  with  the 
mosses  I  shall  take  all  the  especially  moss  plants  which  other- 
wise are  homeless  or  companionless,  Drosera,  and  the  like, 
and  as  a  connecting  link  with  the  flowers  belonging  to  the 

*  The  reader  must  observe  that  the  positions  given  in  this  more  de- 
veloped system  to  any  flower  do  not  interfere  with  arrangements  either 
formerly  or  hereafter  given  for  memoria  technica.  The  name  of  the 
pea,  for  instance  (alata)  is  to  be  learned  first  among  the  twelve  cinqfoils. 
p.  134,  above  ;  then  transferred  to  its  botanical  place. 

f  The  amphibious  habit  of  this  race  is  to  me  of  more  importance  thai? 
its  outlaid  structure. 


GENEALOGY. 


139 


Dark  Kora,  the  two  strange  orders  of  the  Ophryds  and 
Agarics. 

32.  Lastly  will  come  the  orders  of  flowers  which  may  be 
thought  of  as  belonging  for  the  most  part  to  the  Dark  Kora 
of  the  lower  world, — having  at  least  the  power  of  death,  if  not 
its  terror,  given  them,  together  with  offices  of  comfort  and 
healing  in  sleep,  or  of  strengthening,  if  not  too  prolonged, 
action  on  the  nervous  power  of  life.  Of  these,  the  first 
will  be  the  DIONYSID^E,— Hedera,  Vitis,  Liana  ;  then  the 
DBACONIDiE, — Atropa,  Digitalis,  Linaria ;  and,  lastly,  the 
MOIKIDiE, — Conium,  Papaver,  Solanum,  Arum  and  Nerium. 

33.  As  I  see  this  scheme  now  drawn  out,  simple  as  it  is,  the 
scope  of  it  seems  not  only  far  too  great  for  adequate  completion 
by  my  own  labour,  but  larger  than  the  time  likely  to  be  given 
to  botany  by  average  scholars  would  enable  them  intelligently 
to  grasp  :  and  yet  it  includes,  I  suppose,  not  the  tenth  part 
of  the  varieties  of  plants  respecting  which,  in  competitive  ex- 
amination, a  student  of  physical  science  is  now  expected  to 
know,  or  at  least  assert  on  hearsay,  something. 

So  far  as  I  have  influence  with  the  young,  myself,  I  would 
pray  them  to  be  assured  that  it  is  better  to  know  the  habits  of 
one  plant  than  the  names  of  a  thousand  ;  and  wiser  to  be  hap- 
pily familiar  with  those  that  grow  in  the  nearest  field,  than 
arduously  cognisant  of  all  that  plume  the  isles  of  the  Pacific, 
or  illumine  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 

Nevertheless,  I  believe  that  when  once  the  general  form  of 
this  system  in  Proserpina  has  been  well  learned,  much  other 
knowledge  may  be  easily  attached  to  it,  or  sheltered  under 
the  eaves  of  it :  and  in  its  own  development,  I  believe  every- 
thing may  be  included  that  the  student  will  find  useful,  or 
may  wisely  desire  to  investigate,  of  properly  European  botany* 
But  I  am  convinced  that  the  best  results  of  his  study  will  be 
reached  by  a  resolved  adherence  to  extreme  simplicity  of 
primal  idea,  and  primal  nomenclature. 

34.  I  do  not  think  the  need  of  revisal  of  our  present  scien- 
tific classification  could  be  more  clearly  demonstrated  than  by 
the  fact  that  laurels  and  roses  are  confused,  even  by  Dr.  Lind- 
ley,  in  the  mind  of  his  feminine  readers  ;  the  English  word 


PROSERPINA. 


laurel,  in  the  index  to  bis  first  volume  of  Ladies'  Botany, 
referring  them  to  the  cherries,  under  which  the  common 
laurel  is  placed  as  'Prunus  Laurocerasus,'  while  the  true 
laurel,  'Laurus  nobilis,' must  be  found  in  the  index  of  the 
second  volume,  under  the  Latin  form  '  Lauras.' 

This  accident,  however,  illustrates  another,  and  a  most  im- 
portant point  to  be  remembered,  in  all  arrangements  whether 
of  plants,  minerals,  or  animals.  No  single  classification  can 
possibly  be  perfect,  or  anything  like  perfect.  It  must  be,  at 
its  best,  a  ground,  or  warp  of  arrangement  only,  through 
which,  or  over  which,  the  cross  threads  of  another, — yes,  and 
of  many  others, — must  be  woven  in  our  minds.  Thus  the 
almond,  though  in  the  form  and  colour  of  its  flower,  and 
method  of  its  fruit,  rightly  associated  with  the  roses,  yet  by 
the  richness  and  sweetness  of  its  kernel  must  be  held  mentally 
connected  with  all  plants  that  bear  nuts.  These  assuredly 
must  have  something  in  their  structure  common,  justifying 
their  being  gathered  into  a  conceived  or  conceivable  group 
of  '  Nuciferce,'  in  which  the  almond,  hazel,  walnut,  cocoa-nut, 
and  such  others  would  be  considered  as  having  relationship,  at 
least  in  their  power  of  secreting  a  crisp  and  sweet  substance 
which  is  not  wood,  nor  bark,  nor  pulp,  nor  seed-pabulum  re- 
ducible to  softness  by  boiling  ; — but  quite  separate  substance, 
for  which  I  do  not  know  that  there  at  present  exists  any  bo- 
tanical name, — of  which,  hitherto,  I  find  no  general  account, 
and  can  only  myself  give  so  much,  on  reflection,  as  that  it  is 
crisp  and  close  in  texture,  and  always  contains  some  kind  of 
oil  or  milk. 

35.  Again,  suppose  the  arrangement  of  plants  could  with 
respect  to  their  flowers  and  fruits,  be  made  approximately 
complete,  they  must  instantly  be  broken  and  reformed  by 
comparison  of  their  stems  and  leaves.  The  three  creeping 
families  of  the  Charities, — Rosa,  Rubra,  and  Fragaria, — must 
then  be  frankly  separated  from  the  elastic  Persica  and  knotty 
Pomum  ;  of  which  one  wild  and  lovely  species,  the  hawthorn, 
is  no  less  notable  for  the  massive  accumulation  of  wood  in  the 
stubborn  stem  of  it,  than  the  wild  rose  for  her  lovely  power 
of  wreathing  her  garlands  at  pleasure  wherever  they  are 


GENEALOGY. 


141 


fairest,  the  stem  following  them  and  sustaining,  where  they 
will. 

36.  Thus,  as  we  examine  sucessively  each  part  of  any  plant, 
new  sisterhoods,  and  unthought-of  fellowships,  will  be  found 
between  the  most  distant  orders  ;  and  ravines  of  unexpected 
separation  open  between  those  otherwise  closely  allied.  Few 
botanical  characters  are  more  definite  than  the  leaf  structure 
illustrated  in  Plate  VI,  which  has  given  to  one  group  of  the 
Drosidse  the  descriptive  name  of  Ensate,  (see  above,  Chapter 
IX.,  §  11,)  but  this  conformation  would  not  be  wisely  permit- 
ted to  interfere  in  the  least  with  the  arrangement  founded  on 
the  much  more  decisive  floral  aspects  of  the  Iris  and  Lily.  So, 
in  the  fifth  volume  of  '  Modern  Painters/ the  sword-like,  or 
rather  rapier-like,  leaves  of  the  pine  are  opposed,  for  the  sake 
of  more  vivid  realization,  to  the  shield-like  leaves  of  the  greater 
number  of  inland  trees  ;  but  it  w7ould  be  absurd  to  allow  this 
difference  any  share  in  botanical  arrangement, — else  we  should 
find  ourselves  thrown  into  sudden  discomfiture  by  the  wide- 
waving  and  opening  foliage  of  the  palms  and  ferns. 

37.  But  through  all  the  defeats  by  which  insolent  endeav- 
ors to  sum  the  orders  of  Creation  must  be  reproved,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  successes  by  which  patient  insight  will  be 
surprised,  the  fact  of  the  confirmation  of  species  in  plants  and 
animals  must  remain  always  a  miraculous  one.  What  out- 
stretched sign  of  constant  Omnipotence  can  be  more  awful, 
than  that  the  susceptibility  to  external  influences,  with  the 
reciprocal  power  of  transformation,  in  the  organs  of  the  plant ; 
and  the  infinite  powers  of  moral  training  and  mental  concep- 
tion over  the  nativity  of  animals,  should  be  so  restrained 
within  impassable  limits,  and  by  inconceivable  laws,  that  from 
generation  to  generation,  under  all  the  clouds  and  revolutions 
of  heaven  with  its  stars,  and  among  all  the  calamities  and 
convulsions  of  the  Earth  with  her  passions,  the  numbers  and 
the  names  of  her  Kindred  may  still  be  counted  for  her  in 
unfailing  truth  ; — still  the  fifth  sweet  leaf  unfold  for  the  Eose, 
and  the  sixth  spring  for  the  Lily  ;  and  yet  the  wolf  rave  tame- 
less round  the  folds  of  the  pastoral  mountains,  and  yet  the 
tiger  flame  through  the  forests  of  the  night. 


142 


PROSERPINA. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CORA    AND  KKONOS. 

,  1.  Of  all  the  lovely  wild  plants — and  few,  mountain-bred, 
in  Britain,  are  other  than  lovely, — that  fill  the  clefts  and  crest 
the  ridges  of  my  Brantwood  rock,  the  dearest  to  me,  by  far, 
are  the  clusters  of  whortleberry  which  divide  possession  of 
the  lower  slopes  with  the  wood  hyacinth  and  pervenche. 
They  are  personally  and  specially  dear  to  me  for  their  asso- 
ciation in  my  mind  with  the  woods  of  Montanvert  ;  but  the 
plant  itself,  irrespective  of  all  accidental  feeling,  is  indeed  so 
beautiful  in  all  its  ways — so  delicately  strong  in  the  spring  of 
its  leafage,  so  modestly  wonderful  in  the  formation  of  its 
fruit,  and  so  pure  in  choice  of  its  haunts,  not  capriciously  or 
unfamiliarly,  but  growing  in  luxuriance  through  all  the  health- 
iest and  sweetest  seclusion  of  mountain  territory  throughout 
Europe, — that  I  think  I  may  without  any  sharp  remonstrance 
be  permitted  to  express  for  this  once  only,  personal  feeling  in 
my  nomenclature,  calling  it  in  Latin  'Myrtilla  Cara,'  and  in 
French  'Myrtille  Cherie,'  but  retaining  for  it  in  English  its 
simply  classic  name,  '  Blue  Whortle.' 

2.  It  is  the  most  common  representative  of  the  group  of 
Myrtillse,  which,  on  reference  to  our  classification,  will  be 
found  central  between  the  Ericse  and  Auroras  The  distinc- 
tions between  these  three  families  may  be  easily  remembered, 
and  had  better  be  learned  before  going  farther  ;  but  first  let 
us  note  their  fellowship.  They  are  all  Oreiades,  mountain 
plants  ;  in  specialty,  they  are  all  strong  in  stem,  low  in  stature, 
and  the  Ericaa  and  Aurorae  glorious  in  the  flush  of  their  in- 
finitely exulting  flowers,  ("  the  rapture  of  the  heath  " — above 
spoken  of,  p.  G3.)  But  all  the  essential  loveliness  of  the  Myr- 
tillae  is  in  their  leaves  and  fruit :  the  first  always  exquisitely 
finished  and  grouped  like  the  most  precious  decorative  work 
of  sacred  painting ;  the  second,  red  or  purple,  like  beads  of 
coral  or  amethyst.     Their  minute  flowers  have  rarely  any 


COEA  AND  KRONOS. 


143 


general  part  or  power  in  the  colors  of  mountain  ground  ;  but, 
examined  closely,  they  are  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  the  trav- 
eller's rest  among  the  Alps  ;  and  full  of  exquisiteness  un- 
speakable, in  their  several  bearings  and  miens  of  blossom,  so 
to  speak.  Plate  VIII.  represents,  however  feebly,  the  proud 
bending  back  of  her  head  by  Myrtilla  Regina  :  *  an  action 
as  beautiful  in  her  as  it  is  terrible  in  the  Kingly  Serpent  of 
Egypt. 

3.  The  formal  differences  between  these  three  families  are 
trenchant  and  easily  remembered.  The  Ericse  are  all  quatre- 
foils,  and  quatrefoils  of  the  most  studied  and  accomplished 
symmetry  ;  and  they  bear  no  berries,  but  only  dry  seeds. 
The  Myrtillse  and  Aurorae  are  both  Cinqfoil ;  but  the  Myrtillae 
are  symmetrical  in  their  blossom,  and  the  Aurorce  unsym- 
metrical.  Farther,  the  Myrtillse  are  not  absolutely  determi- 
nate in  the  number  of  their  foils,  (this  being  essentially  a  char- 
acteristic of  flowers  exposed  to  much  hardship,)  and  are  thus 
sometimes  quatrefoil,  in  sympathy  with  the  Ericse.  But  the 
Aurorse  are  strictly  cinqfoil.  These  last  are  the  only  Euro- 
pean form  of  a  larger  group,  well  named  '  Azalea '  from  the 
Greek  d£a,  dryness,  and  its  adjective  d£aAea,  dry  or  parched  ; 
and  this  name  must  be  kept  for  the  world-wide  group,  (in- 
cluding under  it  Rhododendron,  but  not  Kalmia,)  because 
there  is  an  under-meaning  in  the  word  Aza,  enabling  it  to  be 
applied  to  the  substance  of  dry  earth,  and  indicating  one  of 
the  great  functions  of  the  Oreiades,  in  common  with  the 
mosses, — the  collection  of  earth  upon  rocks. 

4.  Neither  the  Ericae,  as  I  have  just  said,  nor  Aurorse  bear 
useful  fruit  ;  and  the  Ericae  are  named  from  their  consequent 
worthlessness  in  the  eyes  of  the  Greek  farmer ;  they  were 
the  plants  he  '  tore  up '  for  his  bed,  or  signal-fire,  his  word 
for  them  including  a  farther  sense  of  crushing  or  bruising 
into  a  heap.  The  Westmoreland  shepherds  now,  alas !  burn 
them  remorselessly  on  the  ground,  (and  a  year  since  had 
nearly  set  the  copse  of  Brantwood  on  fire  just  above  the 
house.)    The  sense  of  parched  and  fruitless  existence  is 

*  "Arctostapliylos  Alpina,"  I  believe  ;  but  scarcely  recognize  the 
fiower  in  my  botanical  books. 


144 


PROSERPINA. 


given  to  the  heaths,  with  beautiful  application  of  the  context, 
in  our  English  translation  of  Jeremiah  xvii.  6  ;  but  I  find  the 
plant  there  named  is,  in  the  Septuagint,  Wild  Tamarisk  ;  the 
mountains  of  Palestine  being,  I  suppose,  in  that  latitude,  too 
low  for  heath,  unless  in  the  Lebanon. 

5.  But  I  have  drawn  the  reader's  thoughts  to  this  great 
race  of  the  Oreiades  at  present,  because  they  place  for  us  in 
the  clearest  light  a  question  which  I  have  finally  to  answer 
before  closing  the  first  volume  of  Proserpina  ;  namely,  what 
is  the  real  difference  between  the  three  ranks  of  Vegetative 
Humility,  and  Noblesse  —  the  Herb,  the  Shrub,  and  the 
Tree  ? 

6.  Between  the  herb,  which  perishes  annually,  and  the 
plants  which  construct  year  after  year  an  increasing  stem, 
there  is,  of  course,  no  difficulty  of  discernment ;  but  between 
the  plants  which,  like  these  Oreiades,  construct  for  them- 
selves richest  intricacy  of  supporting  stem,  yet  scarcely  rise  a 
fathom's  height  above  the  earth  they  gather  and  adorn, — be- 
tween these,  and  the  trees  that  lift  cathedral  aisles  of  colossal 
shade  on  Andes  and  Lebanon, — where  is  the  limit  of  kind  to 
be  truly  set? 

7.  We  have  the  three  orders  given,  as  no  botanist  could,  in 
twelve  lines  by  Milton  : — 

"  Then  herbs  of  every  leaf,  that  sudden  flowYd 
Op'ning  their  various  colours,  and  made  gay 
Her  bosom  smelling  sweet  ;  and,  these  scarce  blown, 
Forth  flourished  thick  the  clust'ring  vine,  forth  crept 
The  swelling  gourd,  up  stood  the  corny  reed 
Embattel'd  in  her  field  ;  and  th'  humble  shimh, 
And  bush  with  frizzled  hair  implicit :  last 
Hose,  as  in  dance,  the  stately  trees,  and  spread 
Their  branches  hung  with  copious  fruits,  or  gemm'd 
Their  blossoms  ;  with  high  woods  the  hills  were  crown'd  ; 
With  tufts  the  valleys  and  each  fountain  side  ; 
With  borders  long  the  rivers." 

Only  to  learn,  and  be  made  to  understand,  these  twelve 
lines  thoroughly  would  teach  a  youth  more  of  true  botany 
than  an  entire  Cyclopaedia  of  modern  nomenclature  and  de« 


CORA  AND  KUONOS. 


145 


scription  :  they  are,  like  all  Milton's  work,  perfect  in  accuracy 
of  epithet,  while  consummate  in  concentration.  Exquisite  in 
touch,  as  infinite  in  breadth,  they  gather  into  their  unbroken 
clause  of  melodious  compass  the  conception  at  once  of  the 
Columbian  prairie,  the  English  cornfield,  the  Syrian  vineyard, 
and  the  Indian  grove.  But  even  Milton  has  left  untold,  and 
for  the  instant  perhaps  unthought  of,  the  most  solemn  differ- 
ence of  rank  between  the  low  and  lofty  trees,  not  in  magni- 
tude only,  nor  in  grace,  but  in  duration. 

8.  Yet  let  us  pause  before  passing  to  this  greater  subject,  to 
dwell  more  closely  on  what  he  has  told  us  so  clearly, — the 
difference  in  Grace,  namely  between  the  trees  that  rise  '  as  in 
dance/  and  f  the  bush  with  frizzled  hair/  For  the  bush  form 
is  essentially  one  taken  by  vegetation  in  some  kind  of  distress  ; 
scorched  by  heat,  discouraged  by  darkness,  or  bitten  by  frost ; 
it  is  the  form  in  which  isolated  knots  of  earnest  plant  life  stay 
the  flux  of  fiery  sands,  bind  the  rents  of  tottering  crags,  purge 
the  stagnant  air  of  crave  or  chasm,  and  fringe  with  sudden 
hues  of  unhoped  spring  the  Arctic  edge  of  retreating  desola- 
tion. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  trees  which,  as  in  sacred  dance, 
make  the  borders  of  the  rivers  glad  with  their  procession,  and 
the  mountain  ridges  statelier  with  their  pride,  are  all  expres- 
sions of  the  vegetative  power  in  its  accomplished  felicities  ; 
gathering  themselves  into  graceful  companionship  with  the 
fairest  arts  and  serenest  life  of  man  ;  and  providing  not  only 
the  sustenance  and  the  instruments,  but  also  the  lessons  and 
the  delights,  of  that  life,  in  perfectness  of  order,  and  un- 
blighted  fruition  of  season  and  time. 

9.  '  Interitura  ' — yet  these  not  to-day,  nor  to-morrow,  nor 
with  the  decline  of  the  summer's  sun.  We  describe  a  plant 
as  small  or  great ;  and  think  we  have  given  account  enough  of 
its  nature  and  being.  But  the  chief  question  for  the  plant,  as 
for  the  human  creature,  is  the  Number  of  its  days  ;  for  to  the 
tree,  as  to  its  master,  the  words  are  forever  true — "  As  thy 
Day  is,  so  shall  thy  Strength  be." 

10.  I  am  astonished  hourly,  more  and  more,  at  the  apathy 
and  stupidity  which  have  prevented  me  hitherto  from  learn- 


146 


PROSERPINA. 


ing  the  most  simple  facts  at  the  base  of  this  question !  Here 
is  this  myrtille  bush  in  my  hand — its  cluster  of  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  delicate  green  branches  knitting  themselves  down- 
wards into  the  stubborn  brown  of  a  stem  on  which  my  knife 
makes  little  impression.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  how 
old  it  is,  still  less  how  old  it  might  one  day  have  been  if  I  had 
not  gathered  it ;  and,  less  than  the  least,  what  hinders  it  from 
becoming  as  old  as  it  likes  !  What  doom  is  there  over  these 
bright  green  sprays,  that  they  may  never  win  to  any  height  or 
space  of  verdure,  nor  persist  beyond  their  narrow  scope  of 
years  ? 

11.  And  the  more  I  think  the  more  I  bewilder  myself  ;  for 
these  bushes,  which  are  pruned  and  clipped  by  the  deathless 
Gardener  into  these  lowly  thickets  of  bloom,  do  not  strew  the 
ground  with  fallen  branches  and  faded  clippings  in  any  wise, 

■ — it  is  the  pining  umbrage  of  the  patriarchal  trees  that  tinges 
the  ground  and  betrays  the  foot  beneath  them  :  but,  under 
the  heather  and  the  Alpine  rose. — Well,  what  is  under  them, 
then  ?  I  never  saw,  nor  thought  of  looking, — will  look  pres- 
ently under  my  own  bosquets  and  beds  of  lingering  heather- 
blossom  :  beds  indeed  they  were  only  a  month  since,  a  foot 
deep  in  flowers,  and  close  in  tufted  cushions,  and  the  moun- 
tain air  that  floated  over  them  rich  in  honey  like  a  draught  of 
metheglin. 

12.  Not  clipped,  nor  pruned,  I  think,  after  all, — nor  dwarfed 
in  the  gardener's  sense  ;  but  pausing  in  perpetual  youth  and 
strength,  ordained  out  of  their  lips  of  roseate  infancy.  Rose- 
trees — the  botanists  have  falsely  called  the  proudest  of  them  ; 
yet  not  trees  in  any  wise,  they,  nor  doomed  to  know  the  edge 
of  axe  at  their  roots,  nor  the  hoary  waste  of  time,  or  searing 
thunder-stroke,  on  sapless  branches.  Continual  morning  for 
them,  and  in  them  ;  they  themselves  an  Aurora,  purple  and 
cloudless,  stayed  on  all  the  happy  hills.  That  shall  be  our 
name  for  them,  in  the  flushed  Phoenician  colour  of  their  height, 
in  calm  or  tempest  of  the  heavenly  sea  ;  how  much  holier  than 
the  depth  of  the  Tyrian  !  And  the  queen  of  them  on  our  own 
Alps  shall  be  £  Aurora  Aipium.'  * 

*  4  Aurora  Regina,'  changed  from  Rhododendron  Ferrugineum. 


CORA  AND  KRONOS. 


147 


13.  There  is  one  word  in  the  Miltonian  painting  of  them 
which  I  must  lean  on  specially  ;  for  the  accurate  English  of  it 
hides  deep  morality  no  less  than  botany.  6  With  hair  implicit' 
The  interweaving  of  complex  band,  which  knits  the  masses  of 
heath  or  of  Alpine  rose  into  their  dense  tufts  and  spheres 
of  flower,  is  to  be  noted  both  in  these,  and  in  stem  structure  of 
a  higher  order  like  that  of  the  stone  pine,  for  an  expression  of 
the  instinct  of  the  plant  gathering  itself  into  protective  unity, 
whether  against  cold  or  heat,  while  the  forms  of  the  trees 
which  have  no  hardship  to  sustain  are  uniformly  based  on  the 
effort  of  each  spray  to  separate  itself  from  its  fellows  to  the 
utmost,  and  obtain  around  its  own  leaves  the  utmost  space  of 
air. 

In  vulgar  modern  English,  the  term  '  implicit/  used  of 
Trust  or  Faith,  has  come  to  signify  only  its  serenity.  But 
the  Miltonian  word  gives  the  reason  of  serenity  :  the  root  and 
branch  intricacy  of  closest  knowledge  and  fellowship. 

14.  I  have  said  that  Milton  has  told  us  more  in  these  few 
lines  than  any  botanist  could.  I  will  prove  my  saying  by 
placing  in  comparison  with  them  two  passages  of  description 
by  the  most  imaginative  and  generally  well-trained  scientific 
man  since  Linnaeus — Humboldt — which,  containing  much  that 
is  at  this  moment  of  special  use  to  us,  are  curious  also  in  the 
confusion  even  of  the  two  orders  of  annual  and  perennial 
plants,  and  show,  therefore,  the  extreme  need  of  most  careful 
initial  work  in  this  distinction  of  the  reign  of  Cora  from  that 
of  Kronos. 

"  The  disk  of  the  setting  sun  appeared  like  a  globe  of  fire 
suspended  over  the  savannah  ;  and  its  last  rays,  as  they  swept 
the  earth,  illumined  the  extremities  of  the  grass,  strongly 
agitated  by  the  evening  breeze.  In  the  low  and  humid  places 
of  the  equinoxial  zone,  even  when  the  gramineous  plants  and 
reeds  present  the  aspect  of  a  meadow,  of  turf,  a  rich  decora- 
tion of  the  picture  is  usually  wanting.  I  mean  that  variety  of 
wild  flowers  which,  scarcely  rising  above  the  grass,  seem  to  lie 
upon  a  smooth  bed  of  verdure.  Between  the  tropics,  the 
strength  and  luxury  of  vegetation  give  such  a  development  to 
plants,  that  the  smallest  of  the  dicotyledonous  family  become 


148 


PROSERPINA. 


shrubs.*  It  would  seem  as  if  the  liliaceous  plants,  mingled 
with  the  gramma,  assumed  the  place  of  the  flowers  of  our 
meadows.  Their  form  is  indeed  striking  ;  they  dazzle  by  the 
variety  and  splendor  of  their  colours  ;  but,  too  high  above  the 
soil,  they  disturb  that  harmonious  relation  which  exists  among 
the  plants  that  compose  our  meadows  and  our  turf.  Nature 
in  her  beneficence,  has  given  the  landscape  under  every  zone 
its  peculiar  tj^pe  of  beauty. 

"  After  proceeding  four  hours  across  the  savannahs,  we  en- 
tered into  a  little  wood  composed  of  shrubs  and  small  trees, 
which  is  called  El  Pejual ;  no  doubt  because  of  the  great 
abundance  of  the  'Pejoa'  (Gaultheria  odorata,)  a  plant  with 
very  odoriferous  leaves.  The  steepness  of  the  mountain  be- 
came less  considerable,  and  we  felt  an  indescribable  pleasure 
in  examining  the  plants  of  this  region.  Nowhere,  perhaps, 
can  be  found  collected  together  in  so  small  a  space  of  ground, 
productions  so  beautiful,  and  so  remarkable  in  regard  to  the 
geography  of  plants.  At  the  height  of  a  thousand  toises  the 
lofty  savannahs  of  the  hills  terminate  in  a  zone  of  shrubs, 
which  by  their  appearance,  their  tortuous  branches,  their  stiff 
leaves,  and  the  dimensions  and  beauty  of  their  purple  flowers, 
remind  us  of  what  is  called  in  the  Cordilleras  of  the  Andes  the 
vegetation  of  the  paramos -\  and  the  punas.  We  find  there  the 
family  of  the  Alpine  rhododendrons,  the  thibaudias,  the  an- 
dromedas,  the  vacciniums,  and  those  befarias  \  with  resinous 
leaves,  which  we  have  several  times  compared  to  the  rhodo- 
dendron of  our  European  Alps. 

"Even  when  nature  does  not  produce  the  same  species  in 
analogous  climates,  either  in  the  plains  of  isothermal  parallels, 
or  on  table-lands  the  temperature  of  which  resembles  that  of 
jxlaces  nearer  the  poles,  we  still  remark  a  striking  resem- 

*  I  do  not  see  what  this  can  mean.  Primroses  and  cowslips  can't  be- 
come shrubs  ;  nor  can  violets,  nor  daisies,  nor  any  other  of  our  pet 
meadow  flowers. 

f  'Deserts.'  Punas  is  not  in  my  Spanish  dictionary,  and  the  refer- 
ence to  a  former  note  is  wrong  in  my  edition  of  Humboldt,  vol.  iii.,  p. 
490. 

X  €tThe  Alpine  rose  of  equinoctial  America,"  p.  453. 


CORA  AND  KRONOS. 


140 


blance  of  appearance  and  physiognomy  in  the  vegetation  of 
the  most  distant  countries.  This  phenomenon  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  in  the  history  of  organic  forms.  I  say  the  his- 
tory ;  for  in  vain  would  reason  forbid  man  to  form  hypotheses 
on  the  origin  of  things  :  he  is  not  the  less  tormented  with 
these  insoluble  problems  of  the  distribution  of  beings." 

15.  Insoluble — yes,  assuredly,  poor  little  beaten  phantasms 
of  palpitating  clay  that  we  are — and  who  asked  us  to  solve  it  ? 
Even  this  Humboldt,  quiet-hearted  and  modest  watcher  of 
the  ways  of  Heaven,  in  the  real  make  of  him,  came  at  last  to 
be  so  far  puffed  up  by  his  vain  science  in  declining  3rears  that 
he  must  needs  write  a  Kosmos  of  things  in  the  Universe,  for- 
sooth, as  if  he  knew  all  about  them  !  when  he  was  not  able 
meanwhile,  (and  does  not  seem  even  to  have  desired  the 
ability,)  to  put  the  slightest  Kosmos  into  his  own  '  Personal 
Narrative - ;  but  leaves  one  to  gather  what  one  wants  out  of 
its  wild  growth  ;  or  rather,  to  wash  or  winnow  what  may  be 
useful  out  of  its  debris,  without  any  vestige  either  of  reference 
or  index  ;  and  I  must  look  for  these  fragmentary  sketches  of 
heath  and  grass  through  chapter  after  chapter  about  the  races 
of  the  Indian  and  religion  of  the  Spaniard, — these  also  of 
great  intrinsic  value,  but  made  useless  to  the  general  reader 
by  interspersed  experiment  on  the  drifts  of  the  wind  and  the 
depths  of  the  sea. 

16.  But  one  more  fragment  out  of  a  note  (vol.  iii.,  p.  494) 
I  must  give,  with  reference  to  an  order  of  the  Rhododendrons 
as  yet  wholly  unknown  to  me. 

M  The  name  of  vine  tree,  *  uvas  camaronas  '  (Shrimp  grapes  ?) 
is  given  in  the  Andes  to  plants  of  the  genus  Thibaudia  on  ac- 
count of  their  large  succulent  fruit.  Thus  the  ancient  botanists 
give  the  name  of  Bear's  vine,  '  Uva  Ursi/  and  vine  of  Mount 
Ida,  'Vitis  Idea,'  to  an  Arbutus  and  Myrtillus  which  belong, 
like  the  Thibaudiae,  to  the  family  of  the  Ericineae." 

Now,  though  I  have  one  entire  bookcase  and  half  of  an- 
other, and  a  large  cabinet  besides,  or  about  fifteen  feet  square 
of  books  on  botany  beside  me  here,  and  a  quantity  more  at 
Oxford,  I  have  no  means  whatever,  in  all  the  heap,  of  finding 
out  what  a  Thibaudia  is  like.    Loudon's  Cyclopaedia,  the  only 


150 


PROSERPINA. 


general  book  I  have,  tells  me  only  that  it  will  grow  well  in 
camellia  houses,  that  its  flowers  develop  at  Christmas,  and 
that  they  are  beautifully  varied  like  a  fritillary :  whereupon  I 
am  very  anxious  to  see  them,  and  taste  their  fruit,  and  be  able 
to  tell  my  pupils  something  intelligible  of  them, — a  new  order, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  among  my  Oreiades.  But  for  the  present 
I  can  make  no  room  for  them,  and  must  be  content,  for  Eng- 
land and  the  Alps,  with  my  single  class,  Myrtilla,  including 
all  the  fruit-bearing  and  (more  or  less)  myrtle-leaved  kinds  ; 
and  Azalea  for  the  fruitless  flushing  of  the  loftier  tribes  ;  tak- 
ing the  special  name  '  Aurora '  for  the  red  and  purple  ones 
of  Europe,  and  resigning  the  already  accepted  'Khodora'  to 
those  of  the  Andes  and  Himalaya. 

17.  Of  wThich  also,  with  help  of  earnest  Indian  botanists,  I 
hope  nevertheless  to  add  some  little  history  to  that  of  our  own 
Oreiades  ;  but  shall  set  myself  on  the  most  familiar  of  them 
first,  as  I  partly  hinted  in  taking  for  the  frontispiece  of  this 
volume  two  unchecked  shoots  of  our  commonest  heath,  in 
their  state  of  full  lustre  and  decline.  And  now  I  must  go  out 
and  see  and  think — and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — what 
becomes  of  all  these  fallen  blossoms,  and  where  my  own 
mountain  Cora  hides  herself  in  winter  ;  and  where  her  sweet 
body  is  laid  in  its  death. 

Think  of  it  with  me,  for  a  moment  before  I  go.  That  har- 
vest of  amethyst  bells,  over  all  Scottish  and  Irish  and  Cum- 
berland hill  and  moorland  ;  what  substance  ia  there  in  it, 
yearly  gathered  out  of  the  mountain  winds, — stayed  there,  as 
if  the  morning  and  evening  clouds  had  been  caught  out  of 
them  and  woven  into  flowers  ;  '  Eopes  of  sea-sand ' — but  that 
is  child's  magic  merely,  compared  to  the  weaving  of  the  Heath 
out  of  the  cloud.  And  once  woven,  how  much  of  it  is  forever 
worn  by  the  Earth  ?  What  weight  of  that  transparent  tissue, 
half  crystal  and  half  comb  of  honey,  lies  strewn  every  year 
dead  under  the  snow  ? 

I  must  go  and  look,  and  can  write  no  more  to-day  ;  nor  to- 
morrow neither.  I  must  gather  slowly  what  I  see,  and 
remember  ;  and  meantime  leaving,  to  be  dealt  with  afterwards, 
the  difficult  and  quite  separate  question  of  the  production  of 


Plate  VIII. — Myrtilla  Regina. 
Sketched  for  her  gesture  only.    Isella,  1877. 


THE  SEED  AND  HUSK 


151 


wood,  I  will  close  this  first  volume  of  Proserpina  with  some  neces- 
sary statements  respecting  the  operations,  serviceable  to  other 
creatures  than  themselves,  in  which  the  lives  of  the  noblest 
plants  are  ended  :  honourable  in  this  service  equally,  though 
evanescent,  some, — in  the  passing  of  a  breeze — or  the  dying 
of  a  day  ; — and  patient  some,  of  storm  and  time,  serene  in 
fruitful  sanctity,  through  all  the  uncounted  ages  which  Man 
has  polluted  with  his  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE     SEED    AND  HUSK. 

1.  Not  the  least  sorrowful,  nor  least  absurd  of  the  confu- 
sions brought  on  us  by  unscholarly  botanists,  blundering 
into  foreign  languages,  when  they  do  not  know  how  to  use 
their  own,  is  that  which  has  followed  on  their  practice  of 
calling  the  seed-vessels  of  flowers  '  egg-vessels/  *  in  Latin  ; 
thus  involving  total  loss  of  the  power  of  the  good  old  English 
word  '  husk/  and  the  good  old  French  one,  '  cosse.'  For  all 
the  treasuries  of  plants  (see  Chapter  IV.,  §  17)  may  be  best 
conceived,  and  described,  generally,  as  consisting  of  'seed' 
and  'husk/ — for  the  most  part  two  or  more  seeds,  in  a  husk 
composed  of  two  or  more  parts,  as  pease  in  their  shell,  pips 
in  an  orange,  or  kernels  in  a  walnut  ;  but  whatever  their  num- 
ber, or  the  method  of  their  enclosure,  let  the  student  keep 
clear  in  his  mind,  for  the  base  of  all  study  of  fructification, 
the  broad  distinction  between  the  seed,  as  one  thing,  and  the 
husk  as  another :  the  seed,  essential  to  the  continuance  of  the 
plant's  race  ;  and  the  husk,  adapted,  primarily,  to  its  guard 
and  dissemination  ;  but  secondarily,  to  quite  other  and  far 
more  important  functions. 

2.  For  on  this  distinction  follows  another  practical  one  of 
great  importance.  A  seed  may  serve,  and  many  do  mightily 
serve,  for  the  food  of  man,  when  boiled,  crushed,  or  otherwise 

*  More  literally  "  persons  to  wliom  the  care  of  eggs  is  entrusted. v 


152 


PROSERPINA. 


industriously  prepared  by  man  himself,  for  his  mere  suste- 
nance. But  the  husk  of  the  seed  is  prepared  in  many  cases 
for  the  delight  of  his  eyes,  and  the  pleasure  of  his  palate,  by 
Nature  herself,  and  is  then  called  a  '  fruit.' 

3.  The  varieties  of  structure  both  in  seed  and  husk,  and  yel 
more,  the  manner  in  which  the  one  is  contained,  and  distrib- 
uted by,  the  other,  are  infinite ;  and  in  some  cases  the  husk 
is  apparently  wanting,  or  takes  some  unrecognizable  form. 
But  in  far  the  plurality  of  instances  the  two  parts  of  the  plant's 
treasury  are  easily  distinguishable,  and  must  be  separately 
studied,  whatever  their  apparent  closeness  of  relation,  or,  (as 
in  all  natural  things,)  the  equivocation  sometimes  taking  place 
between  the  one  and  the  other.  To  me,  the  especially  curious 
point  in  this  matter  is  that,  while  I  find  the  most  elaborate  ac- 
counts given  by  botanists  of  the  stages  of  growth  in  each  of 
these  parts  of  the  treasury,  they  never  say  of  what  use  the  guar- 
dian is  to  the  guarded  part,  irrespective  of  its  service  to  man. 
The  mechanical  action  of  the  husk  in  containing  and  scattering 
the  seeds,  they  indeed  often  notice  and  insist  on  ;  but  they  do 
not  tell  us  of  what,  if  any,  nutritious  or  fostering  use  the  rind 
is  to  a  chestnut,  or  an  orange's  pulp  to  its  pips,  or  a  peach's 
juice  to  its  stone. 

4.  Putting  aside  this  deeper  question  for  the  moment,  let 
us  make  sure  we  understand  well,  and  define  safely,  the  sep- 
arate parts  themselves.  A  seed  consists  essentially  of  a  store, 
or  sack,  containing  substance  to  nourish  a  germ  of  life,  which 
is  surrounded  by  such  substance,  and  in  the  process  of  growth 
is  first  fed  by  it.  The  germ  of  life  itself  rises  into  two  por- 
tions, and  not  more  than  two,  in  the  seeds  of  two-leaved 
plants  ;  but  this  symmetrical  dualism  must  not  be  allowed  to 
confuse  the  student's  conception,  of  the  three  organically 
separate  parts, — the  tough  skin  of  a  bean,  for  instance  ;  the 
softer  contents  of  it  which  we  boil  to  eat ;  and  the  small 
germ  from  which  the  root  springs  when  it  is  sown.  A 
bean  is  the  best  type  of  the  whole  structure.  An  almond  out 
of  its  shell,  a  peach-kernel,  and  an  apple-pip  are  also  clear  and 
perfect,  though  varied  types. 

5.  The  husk,  or  seed-vessel,  is  seen  in  perfect  simplicity  of 


THE  SEED  AND  HUSK. 


153 


type  in  the  pod  of  a  bean,  or  the  globe  of  a  poppy.  There 
are,  I  believe,  flowers  in  which  it  is  absent  or  imperfect  ;  and 
when  it  contains  only  one  seed,  it  may  be  so  small  and  closely 
united  with  the  seed  it  contains,  that  both  will  be  naturally 
thought  of  as  one  thing  only.  Thus,  in  a  dandelion,  the 
little  brown  grains,  which  may  be  blown  away,  each  with  its 
silken  parachute,  are  every  one  of  them  a  complete  husk  and 
seed  together.  But  the  majority  of  instances  (and  those  of 
plants  the  most  serviceable  to  man)  in  which  the  seed-vessel 
has  entirely  a  separate  structure  and  mechanical  power,  justify 
us  in  giving  it  the  normal  term  6  husk,'  as  the  most  widely 
applicable  and  intelligible. 

6.  The  change  of  green,  hard,  and  tasteless  vegetable  sub- 
stance into  beautifully  coloured,  soft,  and  delicious  substance, 
which  produces  what  we  call  a  fruit,  is,  in  most  cases,  of  the 
husk  only  ;  in  others,  of  the  part  of  the  stalk  which  immedi- 
ately sustains  the  seed ;  and  in  a  very  few  instances,  not 
properly  a  change,  but  a  distinct  formation,  of  fruity  substance 
between  the  husk  and  seed.  Normally,  however,  the  husk, 
like  the  seed,  consists  always  of  three  parts ;  it  has  an  outer 
skin,  a  central  substance  of  peculiar  nature,  and  an  inner 
skin,  which  holds  the  seed.  The  main  difficulty,  in  describing 
or  thinking  of  the  completely  ripened  product  of  any  plant,  is 
to  discern  clearly  which  is  the  inner  skin  of  the  husk,  and 
which  the  outer  skin  of  the  seed.  The  peach  is  in  this  respect 
the  best  general  type*, — the  woolly  skin  being  the  outer  one 
of  the  husk  ;  the  part  we  eat,  the  central  substance  of  the 
husk  ;  and  the  hard  shell  of  the  stone,  the  inner  skin  of  the 
husk.    The  bitter  kernel  within  is  the  seed. 

7.  In  this  case,  and  in  the  plum  and  cherry,  the  two  parts 
under  present  examination — husk  and  seed — separate  natu- 
rally ;  the  fruity  part,  which  is  the  body  of  the  husk,  adhering 
firmly  to  the  shell,  which  is  its  inner  coat.  But  in  the  walnut 
and  almond,  the  two  outer  parts  of  the  husk  separate  from 
the  interior  one,  which  becomes  an  apparently  independent 
'  shell.'  So  that  when  first  I  approached  this  subject  I  divided 
the  general  structure  of  a  treasury  into  three  parts — husk, 
shell,  and  kernel ;  and  this  division,  when  we  once  have  mas- 


154 


PROSERPINA. 


tered  the  main  one,  will  be  often  useful.  But  at  first  let  the 
student  keep  steadily  to  his  conception  of  the  two  constant 
parts,  husk  and  seed,  reserving  the  idea  of  shells  and  kernels 
for  one  group  of  plants  only. 

8.  It  will  not  be  always  without  difficulty  that  he  maintains 
the  distinction,  when  the  tree  pretends  to  have  changed  it. 
Thus,  in  the  chestnut,  the  inner  coat  of  the  husk  becomes 
brown,  adheres  to  the  seed,  and  seems  part  of  it ;  and  we 
naturally  call  only  the  thick,  green,  prickly  coat,  the  husk. 
But  this  is  only  one  of  the  deceiving  tricks  of  Nature,  to  com- 
pel our  attention  more  closely.  The  real  place  of  separation, 
to  her  mind,  is  between  the  mahogany-coloured  shell  and  the 
nut  itself,  and  that  more  or  less  silky  and  flossy  coating  with- 
in the  brown  shell  is  the  true  lining  of  the  entire  6  husk.'  The 
paler  brown  skin,  following  the  rugosities  of  the  nut,  is  the  true 
sack  or  skin  of  the  seed.    Similarly  in  the  walnut  and  almond. 

9.  But,  in  the  apple,  two  new  tricks  are  played  us.  First, 
in  the  brown  skin  of  the  ripe  pip,  we  might  imagine  we  saw 
the  part  correspondent  to  the  mahogany  skin  of  the  chestnut, 
and  therefore  the  inner  coat  of  the  husk.  But  it  is  not  so. 
The  brown  skin  of  the  pips  belongs  to  them  properly,  and  is 
all  their  own.  It  is  the  true  skin  or  sack  of  the  seed.  The 
inner  coat  of  the  husk  is  the  smooth,  white,  scaly  part  of  the 
core  that  holds  them. 

Then, — for  trick  number  two.  We  should  as  naturally 
imagine  the  skin  of  the  apple,  which  we  peel  off,  to  be  corre- 
spondent to  the  skin  of  the  peach  ;  and  therefore,  to  be  the 
outer  part  of  the  husk.  But  not  at  all.  The  outer  part  of 
the  husk  in  the  apple  is  melted  away  into  the  fruity  mass  of 
it,  and  the  red  skin  outside  is  the  skin  of  its  sialic,  not  of  its 
seed-vessel  at  all ! 

10.  I  say  4  of  its  stalk,' — that  is  to  say,  of  the  part  of  the 
stalk  immediately  sustaining  the  seed,  commonly  called  the 
torus,  and  expanding  into  the  calyx.  In  the  apple,  this  torus 
incorporates  itself  with  the  husk  completely  ;  then  refines  its 
own  external  skin,  and  colours  that  variously  and  beautifully, 
like  the  true  skin  of  the  husk  in  the  peach,  while  the  withered 
leaves  of  the  calyx  remain  in  the  '  eye  ■  of  the  apple. 


THE  SEED  AND  HUSK. 


155 


But  in  the  'hip'  of  the  rose,  the  incorporation  with  the 
husk  of  the  seed  does  not  take  place.  The  torus,  or, — as  in 
this  flower  from  its  peculiar  form  it  is  called, — the  tube  of  the 
calyx,  alone  forms  the  frutescent  part  of  the  hip  ;  and  the 
complete  seeds,  husk  and  all,  (the  firm  triangular  husk  enclos- 
ing an  almond-shaped  kernel,)  are  grouped  closely  in  its  in= 
terior  cavity,  while  the  calyx  remains  on  the  top  in  a  large 
and  scarcely  withering  star.  In  the  nut,  the  calyx  remains 
green  and  beautiful,  forming  what  we  call  the  husk  of  a  fil- 
bert ;  and  again  we  find  Nature  amusing  herself  by  trying  to 
make  us  think  that  this  strict  envelope,  almost  closing  over 
the  single  seed,  is  the  same  thing  to  the  nut  that  its  green 
shell  is  to  a  walnut ! 

11.  With  still  more  capricious  masquing,  she  varies  and 
hides  the  structure  of  her  'berries.' 

The  strawberry  is  a  hip  turned  inside-out,  the  frutescent 
receptacle  changed  into  a  scarlet  ball,  or  cone,  of  crystalline 
and  delicious  coral,  in  the  outside  of  which  the  separate  seeds, 
husk  and  all,  are  imbedded.  In  the  raspberry  and  blackberry, 
the  interior  mound  remains  sapless  ;  and  the  rubied  translu- 
cency  of  dulcet  substance  is  formed  round  each  separate  seed, 
upon  its  husk  ;  not  a  part  of  the  husk,  but  now  an  entirely  in- 
dependent and  added  portion  of  the  plant's  bodily  form. 

12.  What  is  thus  done  for  each  seed,  on  the  outside  of  the 
receptacle,  in  the  raspberry,  is  done  for  each  seed,  i?iside  the 
calyx,  in  a  pomegranate  ;  which  is  a  hip  in  which  the  seeds 
have  become  surrounded  with  a  radiant  juice,  richer  than 
claret  wine  ;  while  the  seed  itself,  within  the  generous  jewel, 
is  succulent  also,  and  spoken  of  by  Tournefort  as  a  "  baie  sue- 
culente."  The  tube  of  the  calyx,  brown-russet  like  a  large  hip, 
externally,  is  yet  otherwise  divided,  and  separated  wholly  from 
the  cinque-foiled,  and  cinque-celled  rose,  both  in  number  of 
petal  and  division  of  treasuries  ;  the  calyx  has  eight  points,  and 
nine  cells. 

13.  Lastly,  in  the  orange,  the  fount  of  fragrant  juice  is  in- 
terposed between  the  seed  and  the  husk.  It  is  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  both  ;  the  Aurantine  rind,  with  its  white  lining  and 
divided  compartments,  is  the  true  husk  ;  the  orange  pips  are 


156 


PROSERPINA. 


the  true  seeds  ;  and  the  eatable  part  of  the  fruit  is  formed  be- 
tween them,  in  clusters  of  delicate  little  flasks,  as  if  a  fairy's 
store  of  scented  wine  had  been  laid  up  by  her  in  the  hollow 
of  a  chestnut  shell,  between  the  nut  and  rind ;  and  then  the 
green  changed  to  gold. 

14.  I  have  said  '  lastly  9 — of  the  orange,  for  fear  of  the 
reader's  wTeariness  only  ;  not  as  having  yet  represented,  far  less 
exhausted,  the  variety  of  frutescent  form.  But  these  are  the 
most  important  types  of  it ;  and  before  I  can  explain  the  re- 
lation between  these,  and  another,  too  often  confounded  with 
them — the  granular  form  of  the  seed  of  grasses, — I  must  give 
some  account  of  what,  to  man,  is  far  more  important  than  the 
form — the  gift  to  him  in  fruit-food  ;  and  trial,  in  fruit-tempta- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  FRUIT  GIFT. 

1.  In  the  course  of  the  preceding  chapter,  I  hope  that  the 
reader  has  obtained,  or  may  by  a  little  patience  both  obtain 
and  secure,  the  idea  of  a  great  natural  Ordinance,  which,  in 
the  protection  given  to  the  part  of  plants  necessary  to  prolong 
their  race,  provides,  for  happier  living  creatures,  food  delight- 
ful to  their  taste,  and  forms  either  amusing  or  beautiful  to 
their  eyes.  Whether  in  receptacle,  calyx,  or  true  husk, — in 
the  cup  of  the  acorn,  the  fringe  of  the  filbert,  the  down  of  the 
apricot,  or  bloom  of  the  plum,  the  powers  of  Nature  consult 
quite  other  ends  than  the  mere  continuance  of  oaks  and  plum 
trees  on  the  earth  ;  and  must  be  regarded  always  with  grati- 
tude more  deep  than  wonder,  when  they  are  indeed  seen  with 
human  eyes  and  human  intellect. 

2.  But  in  one  family  of  plants,  the  contents  also  of  the  seed, 
not  the  envelope  of  it  merely,  are  prepared  for  the  support  of 
the  higher  animal  life  ;  and  their  grain,  filled  with  the  sub- 
stance which,  for  universally  understood  name,  may  best  keep 
the  Latin  one  of  Farina, — becoming  in  French,  ^Farine/  and 


THE  FRUIT  GIFT. 


157 


in  English,  'Flour,' — both  in  the  perfectly  nourishing  ele- 
ments of  it,  and  its  easy  and  abundant  multiplicability,  be- 
comes the  primal  treasure  of  human  economy. 

3.  It  has  been  the  practice  of  botanists  of  all  nations  to 
consider  the  seeds  of  the  grasses  together  with  those  of  roses 
and  pease,  as  if  all  could  be  described  on  the  same  principles, 
and  with  the  same  nomenclature  of  parts.  But  the  grain  of 
corn  is  a  quite  distinct  thing  from  the  seed  of  pease.  In  it, 
the  husk  and  the  seed  envelope  have  become  inextricably  one. 
All  the  exocarps,  endocarps,  epicarps,  mesocarps,  shells,  husks, 
sacks,  and  skins,  are  woven  at  once  together  into  the  brown 
bran  ;  and  inside  of  that,  a  new  substance  is  collected  for  us, 
which  is  not  what  we  boil  in  pease,  or  poach  in  eggs,  or  munch 
in  nuts,  or  grind  in  coffee  ; — but  a  thing  which,  mixed  with 
water  and  then  baked,  has  given  to  all  the  nations  of  the  world 
their  prime  word  for  food,  in  thought  and  prayer, — Bread  ; 
their  prime  conception  of  the  man's  and  woman's  labor  in  pre- 
paring it — ("whoso  puttethhand  to  the  ploiujh  " — two  women 
shall  be  grinding  at  the  mill) — their  prime  notion  of  the 
means  of  cooking  by  fire — ("  which  to-day  is,  and  to-morrow 
is  cast  into  the  oven  and  their  prime  notion  of  culinary  office 
• — the  "  chief  baker"  cook,  or  pastry  cook, — (compare  Bedred- 
din  Hassan  in  the  Arabian  Nights) :  and,  finally,  to  modern 
civilization,  the  Saxon  word  'lady,'  with  whatever  it  imports. 

4.  It  has  also  been  the  practice  of  botanists  to  confuse  all 
the  ripened  products  of  plants  under  the  general  term  *  fruit.' 
But  the  essential  and  separate  fruit-gift  is  of  two  substances, 
quite  distinct  from  flour,  namely,  oil  and  wine,  under  the  last 
term  including  for  the  moment  all  kinds  of  juice  which  will 
produce  alcohol  by  fermentation.  Of  these,  oil  may  be  pro- 
duced either  in  the  kernels  of  nuts,  as  in  almonds,  or  in  the 
substance  of  berries,  as  in  the  olive,  date,  and  coffee-berry. 
But  the  sweet  juice  which  will  become  medicinal  in  wine,  can 
only  be  developed  in  the  husk,  or  in  the  receptacle. 

5.  The  office  of  the  Chief  Butler,  as  opposed  to  that  of  the 
Chief  Baker,  and  the  office  of  the  Good  Samaritan,  pouring  in 
oil  and  wine,  refer  both  to  the  total  fruit-gift  in  both  kinds : 
but  in  the  study  of  plants,  we  must  primarily  separate  oui 


158 


PROSERPIWA. 


notion  of  their  gifts  to  men  into  the  three  elements,  flour,  oil 
and  wine  ;  and  have  instantly  and  always  intelligible  names 
for  them  in  Latin,  French,  and  English. 

And  I  think  it  best  not  to  confuse  our  ideas  of  pure  vege- 
table substance  with  the  possible  process  of  fermentation  : — ■ 
so  that  rather  than  '  wine/  for  a  constant  specific  term,  I  will 
take  '  Nectar/ — this  term  more  rightly  including  the  juices  of 
the  peach,  nectarine,  and  plum,  as  well  as  those  of  the  grape, 
currant,  and  apple. 

Our  three  separate  substances  will  then  be  easily  named  in 
all  three  languages : 


There  is  this  farther  advantage  in  keeping  the  third  com- 
mon term,  that  it  leaves  us  the  words  Succus,  Jus,  Juice,  for 
other  liquid  products  of  plants,  watery,  milky,  sugary,  or 
resinous, — often  indeed  important  to  man,  but  often  also 
without  either  agreeable  flavor  or  nutritious  power  ;  and  it  is 
therefore  to  be  observed  with  care  that  we  may  use  the  word 
\  juice/  of  a  liquid  produced  by  any  part  of  a  plant,  but  '  nec- 
tar/ only  of  the  juices  produced  in  its  fruit. 

6.  But  the  good  and  pleasure  of  fruit  is  not  in  the  juice 
only  ; — in  some  kinds,  and  those  not  the  least  valuable,  (as 
the  date,)  it  is  not  in  the  juice  at  all.  We  still  stand  abso- 
lutely in  want  of  a  word  to  express  the  more  or  less  firm  sub- 
stance of  fruit,  as  distinguished  from  all  other  products  of  a 
plant.  And  with  the  usual  ill-luck, — (I  advisedly  think  of  it 
as  demoniacal  misfortune) — of  botanical  science,  no  other 
name  has  been  yet  used  for  such  substance  than  the  entirely 
false  and  ugly  one  of  ' Flesh/ — Fr.,  'Chair/  with  its  still  more 
painful  derivation  6  Charnu/  and  in  England  the  monstrous 
scientific  term,  £  Sarco-carp/ 

But,  under  the  housewifery  of  Proserpina,  since  we  are  to 
call  the  juice  of  fruit,  Nectar,  its  substance  will  be  as  naturally 
and  easily  called  Ambrosia ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  this, 


Farina. 
Farine. 
Flour. 


Oleum. 

Huile. 

Oil 


Nectar. 
Nectar  e 
Nectar. 


THE  FRUIT  GIFT. 


159 


with  the  other  names  defined  in  this  chapter,  will  not  only  be 
found  practically  more  convenient  than  the  phrases  in  com- 
mon use,  but  will  more  securely  fix  in  the  student's  mind  a 
true  conception  of  the  essential  differences  in  substance,  which, 
ultimately,  depend  wholly  on  their  pleasantness  to  human  per- 
ception, and  offices  for  human  good  ;  and  not  at  all  on  any 
otherwise  explicable  structure  or  faculty.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
determine,  by  microscope  or  retort,  that  cinnamon  is  made  of 
cells  with  so  many  walls,  or  grape-juice  of  molecules  with  so 
many  sides  ; — we  are  just  as  far  as  ever  from  understanding' 
why  these  particular  interstices  should  be  aromatic,  and  these 
special  parallelopipeds  exhilarating,  as  we  were  in  the  savagely 
unscientific  days  when  w^e  could  only  see  with  our  eyes,  and 
smell  with  our  noses.  But  to  call  each  of  these  separate  sub- 
stances by  a  name  rightly  belonging  to  it  through  all  the  past 
variations  of  the  language  of  educated  man,  will  probably  en- 
able us  often  to  discern  powers  in  the  thing  itself,  of  affecting 
the  human  body  and  mind,  which  are  indeed  qualities  infi- 
nitely more  its  own,  than  any  which  can  possibly  be  extracted 
by  the  point  of  a  knife,  or  brayed  out  with  a  mortar  and 
pestle. 

7.  Thus,  to  take  merely  instance  in  the  three  main  elements 
of  wThich  we  have  just  determined  the  names, — flour,  oil,  and 
ambrosia  ; — the  differences  in  the  kinds  of  pleasure  which  the 
tongue  received  from  the  powderiness  of  oat-cake,  or  a  well- 
boiled  potato — (in  the  days  when  oat-cake  and  potatoes  were  !) 
—from  the  glossily-softened  crispness  of  a  well-made  salad, 
and  from  the  cool  and  fragrant  amber  of  an  apricot,  are  in- 
deed distinctions  between  the  essential  virtues  of  things 
which  were  made  to  be  tasted,  much  more  than  to  be  eaten  ; 
and  in  their  various  methods  of  ministry  to,  and  temptation 
of,  human  appetites,  have  their  part  in  the  history,  not  of  ele- 
ments merely,  but  of  souls  ;  and  of  the  soul-virtues,  which 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world  have  bade  the  barrel  of  meal 
not  waste,  nor  the  cruse  of  oil  fail ;  and  have  planted,  by 
waters  of  comfort,  the  fruits  which  are  for  the  healing  of 
nations. 

8.  And,  again,  therefore,  I  must  repeat,  with  insistance. 


160 


PROSERPINA. 


the  claim  I  have  made  for  the  limitation  of  language  to  the 
use  made  of  it  by  educated  men.  The  word  1  carp '  could 
never  have  multiplied  itself  into  the  absurdities  of  endo-carps 
and  epi-carps,  but  in  the  mouths  of  men  who  scarcely  ever 
read  it  in  its  original  letters,  and  therefore  never  recognized 
it  as  meaning  precisely  the  same  thing  as  i  fructus/  which 
word,  being  a  little  more  familiar  with,  they  would  have 
scarcely  abused  to  the  same  extent ;  they  would  not  have 
called  a  walnut  shell  an  intra-fruct — or  a  grape  skin  an  extra- 
fruct ;  but  again,  because,  though  they  are  accustomed  to  the 
English  'fructify/  '  frugivorous ' — and  'usufruct,'  they  are 
unaccustomed  to*the  Latin  '  fruor/  and  unconscious  therefore 
that  the  derivative  '  fructus '  must  always,  in  right  use,  mean 
an  enjoyed  thing,  they  generalize  every  mature  vegetable  prod- 
uct under  the  term  ;  and  we  find  Dr.  Gray  coolly  telling  us 
that  there  is  no  fruit  so  "  likely  to  be  mistaken  for  a  seed,"  as 
a  grain  of  corn  !  a  grain,  whether  of  corn,  or  any  other  grass, 
being  precisely  the  vegetable  structure  to  which  frutescent 
change  is  forever  forbidden !  and  to  which  the  word  seed  is 
primarily  and  perfectly  applicable ! — the  thing  to  be  sown, 
not  grafted. 

9.  But  to  mark  this  total  incapability  of  frutescent  change, 
and  connect  the  form  of  the  seed  more  definitely  with  its 
dusty  treasure,  it  is  better  to  reserve,  when  we  are  speaking 
with  precision,  the  term  '  grain  '  for  the  seeds  of  the  grasses  : 
the  difficulty  is  greater  in  French  than  in  English  :  because 
they  have  no  monosyllabic  word  for  the  constantly  granular 
<  seed ' ;  but  for  us  the  terms  are  all  simple,  and  already  in 
right  use,  only  not  quite  clearly  enough  understood  ;  and 
there  remains  only  one  real  difficulty  now  in  our  system  of 
nomenclature,  that  having  taken  the  word  '  husk '  for  the  seed- 
vessel,  we  are  left  without  a  general  word  for  the  true  fringe 
of  a  filbert,  or  the  chaff  of  a  grass.  I  don't  know  whether  the 
French  'frange'  could  be  used  by  them  in  this  sense,  if  we 
took  it  in  English  botany.  But  for  the  present,  we  can  man- 
age well  enough  without  it,  one  general  term,  \  chaff/  serving 
for  all  the  grasses,  '  cup '  for  acorns,  and  *  fringe '  for  nuts. 

10.  But  I  call  this  a  real  difficulty,  because  I  suppose,  among 


THE  FRUIT  GIFT. 


161 


the  myriads  of  plants  of  which  I  know  nothing,  there  may  be 
forms  of  the  envelope  of  fruits  or  seeds  which  may,  for  com- 
fort of  speech,  require  some  common  generic  name.  One  un- 
real difficulty,  or  shadow  of  difficulty,  remains  in  our  having  no 
entirely  comprehensive  name  for  seed  and  seed-vessel  together 
than  that  the  botanists  now  use,  '  fruit.'  But  practically,  even 
now,  people  feel  that  they  can't  gather  figs  of  thistles,  and 
never  speak  of  the  fructification  of  a  thistle,  or  of  the  fruit  of 
a  dandelion.  And,  re-assembling  now,  in  one  view,  the  words 
we  have  determined  on,  they  will  be  found  enough  for  all 
practical  service,  and  in  such  service  always  accurate,  and, 
usually,  suggestive.  I  repeat  them  in  brief  order,  with  such 
farther  explanation  as  they  need. 

11.  All  ripe  products  of  the  life  of  flowers  consist  essentially 
of  the  Seed  and  Husk, — these  being,  in  certain  cases,  sus- 
tained, surrounded,  or  provided  with  means  of  motion,  by 
other  parts  of  the  plant ;  or  by  developments  of  their  own 
form  which  require  in  each  case  distinct  names.  Thus  the 
white  cushion  of  the  dandelion  to  which  its  brown  seeds  are 
attached,  and  the  personal  parachutes  which  belong  to  each, 
must  be  separately  described  for  that  species  of  plants  ;  it  is 
the  little  brown  thing  they  sustain  and  carry  away  on  the 
wind,  which  must  be  examined  as  the  essential  product  of 
the  floret ; — the  c  seed  and  husk.' 

12.  Every  seed  has  a  husk,  holding  either  that  seed  alone, 
or  other  seeds  with  it. 

Every  perfect  seed  consists  of  an  embryo,  and  the  substance 
which  first  nourishes  that  embryo  ;  the  whole  enclosed  in 
a  sack  or  other  sufficient  envelope.  Three  essential  parts 
altogether. 

Every  perfect  husk,  vulgarly  pericarp,  or  !  round-fruit,' — (as 
periwig,  ' round-wig,') — consists  of  a  shell,  (vulgarly  endocarp,) 
rind,  (vulgarly  mesocarp,)  and  skin,  (vulgarly  epicarp)  ;  three 
essential  parts  altogether.  But  one  or  more  of  these  parts 
may  be  effaced,  or  confused  with  another  ;  and  in  the  seeds 
of  grasses  they  all  concentrate  themselves  into  bran. 

13.  When  a  husk  consists  of  two  or  more  parts,  each  of 
which  has  a  separate  shaft  and  volute,  uniting  in  the  pillar 


162 


PROSERPINA. 


and  volute  of  the  flower,  each  separate  piece  of  the  husk  is 
called  a  'carpel.'  The  name  was  first  given  by  De  Candolle, 
and  must  be  retained.  But  it  continually  happens  that  a  sim- 
ple husk  divides  into  two  parts  corresponding  to  the  two 
leaves  of  the  embryo,  as  in  the  peach,  or  symmetrically  hold- 
ing alternate  seeds,  as  in  the  pea.  The  beautiful  drawing  of 
the  pea-shell  with  its  seeds,  in  Rousseau's  botany,  is  the  only 
one  I  have  seen  which  rightly  shows  and  expresses  this  arrange- 
ment. 

14.  A  Fruit  is  either  the  husk,  receptacle,  petal,  or  other 
part  of  a  flower  external  to  the  seed,  in  which  chemical  changes 
have  taken  place,  fitting  it  for  the  most  part  to  become  pleas- 
ant and  healthful  food  for  man,  or  other  living  animals  ;  but 
in  some  cases  making  it  bitter  or  poisonous  to  them,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  it  depraved  or  deadly.  But,  as  far  as  we  know, 
it  is  without  any  definite  office  to  the  seed  it  contains  ;  and 
the  change  takes  place  entirely  to  fit  the  plant  to  the  service 
of  animals.* 

In  its  perfection,  the  Fruit  Gift  is  limited  to  a  temperate 
zone,  of  which  the  polar  limit  is  marked  by  the  strawberry,  and 
the  equatorial  by  the  orange.  The  more  arctic  regions  produce 
even  the  smallest  kinds  of  fruit  with  difficulty  ;  and  the  more 
equatorial,  in  coarse,  oleaginous,  or  over-luscious  masses. 

15.  All  the  most  perfect  fruits  are  developed  from  exquisite 
forms  either  of  foliage  or  flower.  The  vine  leaf,  in  its  generally 
decorative  power,  is  the  most  important,  both  in  life  and  in 
art,  of  all  that  shade  the  habitations  of  men.  The  olive  leaf  is, 
without  any  rival,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  leaves  of  timber 
trees  ;  and  its  blossom,  though  minute,  of  extreme  beauty. 
The  apple  is  essentially  the  fruit  of  the  rose,  and  the  peach  of 
her  only  rival  in  her  own  colour.  The  cherry  and  orange 
blossom  are  the  two  types  of  floral  snow. 

*  A  most  singular  sign  of  this  function  is  given  to  the  chemistry  of 
the  changes,  according  to  a  French  botanist,  to  whose  carefully  and 
richly  illustrated  volume  I  shall  in  future  often  refer  my  readers. 
u  Vers  l'epoque  de  la  maturite,  les  fruits  exlialent  de  Vacide  carbonique. 
lis  ne  presentent  plus  des  lors  aucun  degagement  d'oxygene  pendant  U 
jour,  et  rcspirent,  pour  ainsi  dire,  a  la  faqon  des  animaux."  (Figuier, 
'Histoire  des  Plantes,'  p.  182.  8vo.  Paris.    Hachette,  1874.) 


THE  FRUIT  GIFT. 


163 


16.  And,  lastly,  let  my  readers  be  assured,  the  economy  of 
blossom  and  fruit,  with  the  distribution  of  water,  will  be  found 
hereafter  the  most  accurate  test  of  wise  national  government. 

For  example  of  the  action  of  a  national  government,  rightly 
so  called,  in  these  matters,  I  refer  the  student  to  the  Marie- 
golas  of  Venice,  translated  in  Fors  Clavigera  ;  and  I  close  this 
chapter,  and  this  first  volume  of  Proserpina,  not  without  pride, 
in  the  words  I  wrote  on  this  same  matter  eighteen  years  ago. 
"  So  far  as  the  labourer's  immediate  profit  is  concerned,  it 
matters  not  an  iron-filing  whether  I  employ  him  in  growing  a 
peach,  or  in  forging  a  bombshell.  But  the  difference  to  him 
is  final,  whether,  when  his  child  is  ill,  I  walk  into  his  cottage, 
and  give  it  the  peach, — or  drop  the  shell  down  his  chimney, 
and  blow  his  roof  off." 


Plate  IX. — Viola  Canina. 
Fast  Sketch,  to  show  Grouping  of  Leaves, 


PROSERPINA. 

VOL.  II. 


CHAPTER  I 

VIOLA. 

lo  Although  I  have  not  been  able  in  the  preceding  volume 
to  complete,  in  any  wise  as  I  desired,  the  account  of  the  sev- 
eral parts  and  actions  of  plants  in  general,  I  will  not  delay  any 
longer  our  entrance  on  the  examination  of  particular  kinds, 
though  here  and  there  I  must  interrupt  such  special  study  by 
recurring  to  general  principles,  or  points  of  wider  interest. 
But  the  scope  of  such  larger  inquiry  will  be  best  seen,  and 
the  use  of  it  best  felt,  by  entering  now  on  specific  study. 

I  begin  with  the  Violet,  because  the  arrangement  of  the 
group  to  which  it  belongs — Cytherides — is  more  arbitrary 
than  that  of  the  rest,  and  calls  for  some  immediate  explana- 
tion. 

2.  I  fear  that  my  readers  may  expect  me  to  write  something 
very  pretty  for  them  about  violets  :  but  my  time  for  writing 
prettily  is  long  past ;  and  it  requires  some  watching  over  my- 
self, I  find,  to  keep  me  even  from  writing  querulously.  For 
while,  the  older  I  grow,  very  thankfully  I  recognize  more  and 
more  the  number  of  pleasures  granted  to  human  eyes  in  this 
fair  world,  I  recognize  also  an  increasing  sensitiveness  in  my 
temper  to  anything  that  interferes  with  them  ;  and  a  grievous 
readiness  to  find  fault — always  of  course  submissively,  but  very 
articulately — with  whatever  Nature  seems  to  me  not  to  have 
managed  to  the  best  of  her  power  ; — as,  for  extreme  instance, 
her  late  arrangements  of  frost  this  spring,  destroying  all  the 


166 


PROSERPINA. 


beauty  of  the  wood  sorrels ;  nor  am  I  less  inclined,  looking  to 
lier  as  the  greatest  of  sculptors  and  painters,  to  ask,  every  time 
I  see  a  narcissus,  why  it  should  be  wrapped  up  in  brown 
paper ;  and  every  time  I  see  a  violet,  what  it  wants  with  a 
spur  ? 

3.  What  any  flower  wants  with  a  spur,  is  indeed  the  sim- 
plest and  hitherto  to  me  unanswerablest  form  of  the  question ; 
nevertheless,  when  blossoms  grow  in  spires,  and  are  crowded 
together,  and  have  to  grow  partly  downwards,  in  order  to  win 
their  share  of  light  and  breeze,  one  can  see  some  reason  for  the 
effort  of  the  petals  to  expand  upwards  and  backwards  also. 
But  that  a  violet,  who  has  her  little  stalk  to  herself,  and  might 
grow  straight  up,  if  she  pleased,  should  be  pleased  to  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  but  quite  gratuitously  bend  her  stalk  down  at 
the  top,  and  fasten  herself  to  it  by  her  waist,  as  it  were, — this 
is  so  much  more  like  a  girl  of  the  period's  fancy  than  a  violet's, 
that  I  never  gather  one  separately  but  with  renewed  astonish- 
ment at  it. 

4.  One  reason  indeed  there  is,  which  I  never  thought  of 
until  this  moment !  a  piece  of  stupidity  which  I  can  only  par- 
don myself  in,  because,  as  it  has  chanced,  I  have  studied  violets 
most  in  gardens,  not  in  their  wild  haunts, — partly  thinking 
their  Athenian  honour  was  as  a  garden  flower ;  and  partly  be- 
ing always  led  away  from  them,  among  the  hills,  by  flowers 
wThich  I  could  see  nowhere  else.  With  all  excuse  I  can  furbish 
up,  however,  it  is  shameful  that  the  truth  of  the  matter  never 
struck  me  before,  or  at  least  this  bit  of  the  truth — as  follows. 

5.  The  Greeks,  and  Milton,  alike  speak  of  violets  as  growing 
in  meadows  (or  dales).  But  the  Greeks  did  so  because  they 
could  not  fancy  any  delight  except  in  meadows  ;  and  Milton, 
because  he  wanted  a  rhyme  to  nightingale — and,  after  all,  was 
London  bred.  But  Viola's  beloved  knew  where  violets  grew 
in  Illyria, — and  grow  everywhere  else  also,  when  they  cann- 
on a  bank,  facing  the  south. 

Just  as  distinctly  as  the  daisy  and  buttercup  are  meadow 
flowers,  the  violet  is  a  bank  flower,  and  would  fain  grow  always 
on  a  steep  slope,  towards  the  sun.  And  it  is  so  poised  on  its 
stem  that  it  shows,  when  growing  on  a  slope,  the  full  space 


VIOLA. 


167 


and  opening  of  its  flower, — not  at  all,  in  any  strain  of  modesty, 
hiding  itself  though  it  may  easily  be,  by  grass  or  mossy  stone, 
'half  hidden,' — but,  to  the  full,  showing  itself,  and  intending 
to  be  lovely  and  luminous,  as  fragrant,  to  the  uttermost  of  its 
soft  power. 

Nor  merely  in  its  oblique  setting  on  the  stalk,  but  in  the 
reversion  of  its  two  upper  petals,  the  flower  shows  this  pur- 
pose of  being  fully  seen.  (For  a  flower  that  does  hide  itself, 
take  a  lily  of  the  valley,  or  the  bell  of  a  grape  hyacinth,  or  a 
cyclamen.)  But  respecting  this  matter  of  petal-reversion,  we 
must  now  farther  state  two  or  three  general  principles. 

6.  A  perfect  or  pure  flower,  as  a  rose,  oxalis,  or  campanula, 
is  always  composed  of  an  unbroken  whorl,  or  corolla,  in  the 
form  of  a  disk,  cup,  bell,  or,  if  it  draw  together  again  at  the 
lips,  a  narrow-necked  vase.  This  cup,  bell,  or  vase,  is  divided 
into  similar  petals,  (or  segments,  which  are  petals  carefully 
joined,)  varying  in  number  from  three  to  eight,  and  enclosed 
by  a  calyx  whose  sepals  are  symmetrical  also. 

An  imperfect,  or,  as  I  am  inclined  rather  to  call  it,  an  '  in- 
jured ■  flower,  is  one  in  which  some  of  the  petals  have  infe- 
rior office  and  position,  and  are  either  degraded,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  others,  or  expanded  and  honoured  at  the  cost  of  others. 

Of  this  process,  the  first  and  simplest  condition  is  the  re- 
versal of  the  upper  petals  and  elongation  of  the  lower  ones, 
in  blossoms  set  on  the  side  of  a  clustered  stalk.  When  the 
change  is  simply  and  directly  dependent  on  their  position  in 
the  cluster,  as  in  Aurora  Regina,*  modifying  every  bell  just 
in  proportion  as  it  declines  from  the  perfected  central  one, 
some  of  the  loveliest  groups  of  form  are  produced  which  can 
be  seen  in  any  inferior  organism  :  but  when  the  irregularity 
becomes  fixed,  and  the  flower  is  always  to  the  same  extent 
distorted,  whatever  its  position  in  the  cluster,  the  plant  is  to 
be  rightly  thought  of  as  reduced  to  a  lower  rank  in  creation. 

7.  It  is  to  be  observed,  also,  that  these  inferior  forms  of 
flower  have  always  the  appearance  of  being  produced  by  some 
kind  of  mischief— blight,  bite,  or  ill-breeding  ;  they  never 
suggest  the  idea  of  improving  themselves,  now,  into  anything 

*  Vol.  i.,  p.  W2i  note. 


168 


PROSERPINA. 


better  ;  one  is  only  afraid  of  their  tearing  or  puffing  them* 
selves  into  something  worse.  Nay,  even  the  quite  natural 
and  simple  conditions  of  inferior  vegetable  do  not  in  the 
least  suggest,  to  the  unbitten  or  unblighted  human  intellect, 
the  notion  of  development  into  anything  other  than  their  like  : 
one  does  not  expect  a  mushroom  to  translate  itself  into  a 
pineapple,  nor  a  betony  to  moralize  itself  into  a  lily,  nor  a 
snapdragon  to  soften  himself  into  a  lilac. 

8.  It  is  very  possible,  indeed,  that  the  recent  phrenzy  for 
the  investigation  of  digestive  and  reproductive  operations  in 
plants  may  by  this  time  have  furnished  the  microscopic  mal- 
ice of  botanists  with  providentially  disgusting  reasons,  or 
demoniacally  nasty  necessities,  for  every  possible  spur,  spike, 
jag,  sting,  rent,  blotch,  flaw,  freckle,  filth,  or  venom,  which 
can  be  detected  in  the  construction,  or  distilled  from  the  dis- 
solution, of  vegetable  organism.  But  with  these  obscene 
processes  and  prurient  apparitions  the  gentle  and  happy 
scholar  of  flowers  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  I  am  amazed 
and  saddened,  more  than  I  care  to  say,  by  finding  how  much 
that  is  abominable  may  be  discovered  by  an  ill-taught  curi- 
osity, in  the  purest  things  that  earth  is  allowed  to  produce 
for  us  ; — perhaps  if  we  were  less  reprobate  in  our  own  ways, 
the  grass  which  is  our  type  might  conduct  itself  better,  even 
though  it  has  no  hope  but  of  being  cast  into  the  oven  ;  in  the 
meantime,  healthy  human  eyes  and  thoughts  are  to  be  set  on 
the  lovely  laws  of  its  growth  and  habitation,  and  not  on  the 
jaaean  mysteries  of  its  birth. 

9.  I  relieve,  therefore,  our  presently  inquiring  souls  from 
any  farther  care  as  to  the  reason  for  a  violet's  spur, — or  for 
the  extremely  ugly  arrangements  of  its  stamens  and  style, 
invisible  unless  by  vexatious  and  vicious  peeping.  You  are  to 
think  of  a  violet  only  in  its  green  leaves,  and  purple  or  golden 
petals  ; — you  are  to  know  the  varieties  of  form  in  both,  proper 
to  common  species  ;  and  in  what  kind  of  places  they  all  most 
fondly  live,  and  most  deeply  glow. 

"  And  the  recreation  of  the  minde  which  is  taken  heereby 
cannot  be  but  verie  good  and  honest,  for  they  admonish  and 
stir  up  a  man  to  that  which  is  comely  and  honest.  For 


VIOLA. 


169 


flowers,  through  their  beautie,  varietie  of  colour,  and  exquisite 
forme,  do  bring  to  a  liberall  and  gentle  manly  minde  the  re- 
membrance of  honestie,  comeliness,  and  all  kinds  of  vertues. 
For  it  would  be  an  unseemely  and  filthie  thing,  as  a  certain 
wise  man  saith,  for  him  that  doth  looke  upon  and  handle  faire 
and  beautiful  things,  and  who  frequenteth  and  is  conversant 
in  faire  and  beautiful  places,  to  have  his  mind  not  faire,  but 
filthie  and  deformed." 

10.  Thus  Gerarde,  in  the  close  of  his  introductory  notice 
of  the  violet, — speaking  of  things,  (honesty,  comeliness,  and 
the  like,)  scarcely  now  recognized  as  desirable  in  the  realm 
of  England  ;  but  having  previously  observed  that  violets  are 
useful  for  the  making  of  garlands  for  the  head,  and  posies  to 
smell  to  ; — in  which  last  function  I  observe  they  are  still 
pleasing  to  the  British  public  :  and  I  found  the  children  here, 
only  the  other  day,  munching  a  confection  of  candied  violet 
leaves.  What  pleasure  the  flower  can  still  give  us,  uncan- 
died,  and  unbound,  but  in  its  own  place  and  life,  I  will  try 
to  trace  through  some  of  its  constant  laws. 

11.  And  first,  let  us  be  clear  that  the  native  colour  of  the 
violet  is  violet  ;  and  that  the  white  and  yellow  kinds,  though 
pretty  in  their  place  and  way,  are  not  to  be  thought  of  in 
generally  meditating  the  flower's  quality  or  power.  A  white 
violet  is  to  black  ones  what  a  black  man  is  to  white  ones  ;  and 
the  yellow  varieties  are,  I  believe,  properly  pansies,  and  be- 
long also  to  wild  districts  for  the  most  part ;  but  the  true 
violet,  which  I  have  just  now  called  '  black/  with  Gerarde, 
"  the  blacke  or  purple  violet,  hath  a  great  prerogative  above 
others,"  and  all  the  nobler  species  of  the  pansy  itself  are  of 
full  purple,  inclining,  however,  in  the  ordinary  wild  violet  to 
blue.  In  the  *  Laws  of  Fesole/  chap,  vii.,  §§  20,  21,  I  have 
made  this  dark  pansy  the  representative  of  purple  pure  ;  the 
viola  odorata,  of  the  link  between  that  full  purple  and  blue  ; 
and  the  heath-blossom  of  the  link  between  that  full  purple 
and  red.  The  reader  will  do  well,  as  much  as  may  be  pos- 
sible to  him,  to  associate  his  study  of  botany,  as  indeed  all 
other  studies  of  visible  things,  with  that  of  painting  :  but  he 
must  remember  that  he  cannot  know  what  violet  colour 


170 


PROSERPINA. 


really  is,  unless  he  watch  the  flower  in  its  early  growth.  It 
becomes  dim  in  age,  and  dark  when  it  is  gathered — at  least, 
when  it  is  tied  in  bunches  ; — but  I  am  under  the  impression 
that  the  colour  actually  deadens  also, — at  all  events,  no  other 
single  flower  of  the  same  quiet  colour  lights  up  the  ground 
near  it  as  a  violet  will.  The  bright  hounds  tongue  looks 
merely  like  a  spot  of  bright  paint  ;  but  a  young  violet  glows 
like  painted  glass. 

12.  Which,  when  you  have  once  well  noticed,  the  two  lines 
of  Milton  and  Shakspeare  which  seem  opposed,  will  both  be- 
come clear  to  you.  The  said  lines  are  dragged  from  hand  to 
hand  along  their  pages  of  pilfered  quotations  by  the  hack 
botanists, — who  probably  never  saw  them,  nor  anything  else, 
in  Shakspeare  or  Milton  in  their  lives, — till  even  in  reading 
them  where  they  rightly  come,  you  can  scarcely  recover  their 
fresh  meaning  :  but  none  of  the  botanists  ever  think  of  asking- 
why  Perdita  calls  the  violet  '  dim/  and  Milton  'glowing.' 

Perdita,  indeed,  calls  it  dim,  at  that  moment,  in  thinking 
of  her  own  love,  and  the  hidden  passion  of  it,  unspeakable  ; 
nor  is  Milton  without  some  purpose  of  using  it  as  an  emblem 
of  love,  mourning, — but,  in  both  cases,  the  subdued  and 
quiet  hue  of  the  flower  as  an  actual  tint  of  colour,  and  the 
strange  force  and  life  of  it  as  a  part  of  light,  are  felt  to  their 
uttermost. 

And  observe,  also,  that  both  of  the  poets  contrast  the  violet, 
in  its  softness,  with  the  intense  marking  of  the  pansy.  Mil- 
ton makes  the  opposition  directly — 

"  the  pansy,  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet. " 

Shakspeare  shows  yet  stronger  sense  of  the  difference,  in  the 
"  purple  with  Love's  wound  "  of  the  pansy,  while  the  violet  is 
sweet  with  Love's  hidden  life,  and  sweeter  than  the  lids  of 
Juno's  eyes. 

Whereupon,  we  may  perhaps  consider  with  ourselves  a  little, 
what  the  difference  is  between  a  violet  and  a  pansy  ? 

13.  Is,  I  say,  and  was,  and  is  to  come, — in  spite  of  florists, 
who  try  to  make  pansies  round,  instead  of  pentagonal  ;  and 


VIOLA. 


171 


of  the  wise  classifying  people,  who  say  that  violets  and  pansies 
are  the  same  thing — and  that  neither  of  them  are  of  much 
interest !  As,  for  instance,  Dr.  Lindley  in  his  '  Ladies'  Bot- 
any.' 

"  Violets — sweet  Violets,  and  Pansies,  or  Heartsease,  repre- 
sent a  small  family,  with  the  structure  of  which  you  should 
be  familiar  ;  more,  however,  for  the  sake  of  its  singularity  than 
for  its  extent  or  importance,  for  the  family  is  a  very  small 
one,  and  there  are  but  few  species  belonging  to  it  in  which 
much  interest  is  taken.  As  the  parts  of  the  Heartsease  are 
larger  than  those  of  the  violet,  let  us  select  the  former  in 
preference  for  the  subject  of  our  study."  Whereupon  we 
plunge  instantly  into  the  usual  account  of  things  with  horns 
and  tails.  "  The  stamens  are  five  in  number — two  of  them, 
which  are  in  front  of  the  others,  are  hidden  within  the  horn  of 
the  front  petal,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  (Note  in  passing,  by  the  '  horn 
of  the  front'  petal  he  means  the  'spur  of  the  bottom'  one, 
which  indeed  does  stand  in  front  of  the  rest, — but  if  therefore 
it  is  to  be  called  the  front  petal — which  is  the  back  one  ?) 
You  may  find  in  the  next  paragraph  description  of  a  "  singu- 
lar conformation,"  and  the  interesting  conclusion  that  "  no 
one  has  yet  discovered  for  what  purpose  this  singular  con- 
formation was  provided."  But  you  will  not,  in  the  entire 
article,  find  the  least  attempt  to  tell  you  the  difference  be- 
tween a  violet  and  a  pansy  ! — except  in  one  statement — and 
that  false  !  "The  sweet  violet  will  have  no  rival  among  flow- 
ers, if  we  merely  seek  for  delicate  fragrance  ;  but  her  sister, 
the  heartsease,  who  is  destitute  of  all  sweetness,  far  surpasses 
her  in  rich  dresses  and  gaudy  !!!  colours."  The  heartsease  is 
not  without  sweetness.  There  are  sweet  pansies  scented,  and 
dog  pansies  un scented — as  there  are  sweet  violets  scented, 
and  dog  violets  unscented.    "What  is  the  real  difference? 

14.  I  turn  to  another  scientific  gentleman- — more  scientific 
in  form  indeed,  Mr.  Grindon, — and  find,  for  another  interest- 
ing phenomenon  in  the  violet,  that  it  sometimes  produces 
flowers  without  any  petals!  and  in  the  pansy,  that  "the  flow- 
ers turn  towards  the  sun,  and  when  many  are  open  at  once, 
present  a  droll  appearance,  looking  like  a  number  of  faces  all 


172 


PR0SERP1KA. 


on  the  c  qui  vive.' M  But  nothing  of  the  difference  between 
them,  except  something  about  'stipules/  of  which  "it  is  im- 
portant to  observe  that  the  leaves  should  be  taken  from  the 
middle  of  the  stem — those  above  and  below  being  variable." 

I  observe,  however,  that  Mr.  Grindon  has  arrranged  his 
violets  under  the  letter  A,  and  his  pansies  under  the  letter 
B,  and  that  something  may  be  really  made  out  of  him,  with 
an  hour  or  two's  work.  I  am  content,  however,  at  present, 
with  his  simplifying  assurance  that  of  violet  and  pansy  to- 
gether, "  six  species  grow  wild  in  Britain — or,  as  some  be- 
lieve, only  four — while  the  analysts  run  the  number  up  to 
fifteen." 

15.  Next  I  try  Loudon's  Cyclopaedia,  which,  through  all  its 
700  pages,  is  equally  silent  on  the  business  ;  and  next,  Mr. 
Baxter's  '  British  Flowering  Plants,'  in  the  index  of  which  I 
find  neither  Pansy  nor  Heartsease,  and  only  the  *  Calathian ' 
Yiolet,  (where  on  earth  is  Calathia  ?)  which  proves,  on  turning 
it  up,  to  be  a  Gentian. 

16.  At  last,  I  take  my  Figuier,  (but  what  should  I  do  if  I 
only  knew  English?)  and  find  this  much  of  clue  to  the  mat- 
ter : — 

"Qu'est  ce  que  c'est  que  la  Pensee?  Cette  jolie  plante  ap- 
partient  aussi  au  genre  Viola,  mais  a  un  section  de  ce  genre. 
En  effet,  dans  les  Pensees,  les  petales  superieurs  et  lateraux 
sont  diriges  en  haut,  l'inferieur  seul  est  dirige  en  bas  :  et  de 
plus,  le  stigmate  est  urceole,  globuleux." 

And  farther,  this  general  description  of  the  whole  violet 
tribe,  which  I  translate,  that  we  may  have  its  full  value  : — 

"  The  violet  is  a  plant  without  a  stem  (tige), — (see  vol.  i., 
p.  108,) — whose  height  does  not  surpass  one  or  two  deci- 
metres. Its  leaves,  radical,  or  carried  on  stolons,  (vol.  i.,  p. 
Ill,)  are  sharp,  or  oval,  crenulate,  or  heart-shape.  Its  stipules 
are  oval-acuminate,  or  lanceolate.  Its  flowers,  of  sweet  scent, 
of  a  dark  violet  or  a  reddish  blue,  are  carried  each  on  a  slen- 
der peduncle,  which  bends  down  at  the  summit.  Such  is, 
for  the  botanist,  the  Violet,  of  which  the  poets  would  give  as- 
suredly another  description." 

17.  Perhaps ;  or  even  the  painters !  or  even  an  ordinary 


VIOLA. 


173 


unbotanical  human  creature  !  I  must  set  about  my  business, 
at  any  rate,  in  my  own  way,  now,  as  I  best  can,  looking  first 
at  things  themselves,  and  then  putting  this  and  that  together, 
out  of  these  botanical  persons,  which  they  can't  put  together 
out  of  themselves.  And  first,  I  go  down  into  my  kitchen 
garden,  where  the  path  to  the  lake  has  a  border  of  pansies  on 
both  sides  all  the  wTay  down,  with  clusters  of  narcissus  behind 
them.  And  pulling  up  a  handful  of  pansies  by  the  roots,  I 
find  them  "  without  stems,"  indeed,  if  a  stem  means  a  wooden 
thing ;  but  I  should  say,  for  a  low-growing  flower,  quite 
lankily  and  disagreeably  stalky  !  And,  thinking  over  what  I 
aemember  about  wild  pansies,  I  find  an  impression  on  my 
mind  of  their  being  rather  more  stalky,  always,  than  is  quite 
graceful ;  and,  for  all  their  fine  flowTers,  having  rather  a  weedy 
and  littery  look,  and  getting  into  places  where  they  have  no 
business.    See,  again,  vol.  i.,  chap,  vi.,  §  5. 

18.  And  now,  going  up  into  my  flower  and  fruit  garden,  I 
find  (June  2nd,  1881,  half-past  six,  morning,)  among  the  wild 
saxifrages,  which  are  allowed  to  grow  wherever  they  like,  and 
the  rock  strawberries,  and  Francescas,  which  are  coaxed  to 
grow  wherever  there  is  a  bit  of  rough  ground  for  them,  a 
bunch  or  two  of  pale  pansies,  or  violets,  I  don't  know  well 
which,  by  the  flower ;  but  the  entire  company  of  them  has  a 
ragged,  jagged,  unpurpose-like  look  ;  extremely, — I  should 
say, — demoralizing  to  all  the  little  plants  in  their  neighbour- 
hood :  and  on  gathering  a  flower,  I  find  it  is  a  nasty  big  thing, 
all  of  a  feeble  blue,  and  with  two  things  like  horns,  or  thorns, 
sticking  out  where  its  ears  would  be,  if  the  pansy's  frequently 
monkey  face  were  underneath  them.  Which  I  find  to  be  two 
of  the  leaves  of  its  calyx  'out  of  place,5  and,  at  all  events,  for 
their  part,  therefore,  weedy,  and  insolent. 

19.  I  perceive,  farther,  that  this  disorderly  flower  is  lifted 
on  a  lanky,  awkward,  springless,  and  yet  stiff  flower-stalk  ; 
which  is  not  round,  as  a  flower-stalk  ought  to  be,  (vol.  i.,  p. 
235,)  but  obstinately  square,  and  fluted,  with  projecting 
edges,  like  a  pillar  run  thin  out  of  an  iron-foundry  for  a  cheap 
railway  station.  I  perceive  also  that  it  has  set  on  it,  just  be- 
fore turning  down  to  carry  the  flower,  two  little  jaggy  and  in- 


174 


PROSERPINA, 


definable  leaves, — their  colour  a  little  more  violet  than  the 
blossom. 

These,  and  such  undeveloping  leaves,  wherever  they  occur, 
are  called  '  bracts '  by  botanists,  a  good  word,  from  the  Latin 
'  bractea,'  meaning  a  piece  of  metal  plate,  so  thin  as  to 
crackle.  They  seem  always  a  little  stiff,  like  bad  parchment, 
— born  to  come  to  nothing — a  sort  of  infinitesimal  fairy-law- 
yer's deed.  They  ought  to  have  been  in  my  index  at  p.  237, 
under  the  head  of  leaves,  and  are  frequent  in  flower  structure, 
— never,  as  far  as  one  can  see,  of  the  smallest  use.  They  are 
constant,  however,  in  the  flower-stalk  of  the  whole  violet 
tribe. 

20.  I  perceive,  farther,  that  this  lanky  flower-stalk,  bend- 
ing a  little  in  a  crabbed,  broken  way,  like  an  obstinate  person 
tired,  pushes  itself  up  out  of  a  still  more  stubborn,  nondescript, 
hollow  angular,  dogs-eared  gaspipe  of  a  stalk,  with  a  section 


a  quantity  of  ill-made  and  ill-hemmed  leaves  on  it,  of  no 
describable  leaf-cloth  or  texture, — not  cressic,  (though  the 
thing  does  altogether  look  a  good  deal  like  a  quite  uneatable 
old  watercress)  ;  not  salvian,  for  there's  no  look  of  warmth  or 
comfort  in  them  ;  not  cauline,  for  there's  no  juice  in  them  ; 
not  dryad,  for  there's  no  strength  in  them,  nor  apparent  use  : 
they  seem  only  there,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  to  spoil  the 
flower,  and  take  the  good  out  of  my  garden  bed.  Nobody  in 
the  world  could  draw  them,  they  are  so  mixed  up  together, 
and  crumpled  and  hacked  about,  as  if  some  ill-natured  child 
had  snipped  them  with  blunt  scissors,  and  an  ill-natured  cow 
chewed  them  a  little  afterwards  and  left  them,  proving  far 
too  tough  or  too  bitter. 

21.  Having  now  sufficiently  observed,  it  seems  to  me,  this 
incongruous  plant,  I  proceed  to  ask  myself,  over  it,  M. 
Figuier's  question,  c  Qu'est-ce  c'est  qu'un  Pensee  ?  '  Is  this  a 
violet — or  a  pansy — or  a  bad  imitation  of  both  ? 

Whereupon  I  try  if  it  has  any  scent :  and  to  my  much  sur- 
prise, find  it  has  a  full  and  soft  one — which  I  suppose  is  what 
my  gardener  keeps  it  for  !    According  to  Dr.  Lindley,  then, 


VIOLA. 


175 


it  must  be  a  violet !  But  according  to  M.  Figuier, — let  me 
see,  do  its  middle  petals  bend  up,  or  down  ? 

I  think  I'll  go  and  ask  the  gardener  what  he  calls  it. 

22.  My  gardener,  on  appeal  to  him,  tells  me  it  is  the  6  Viola 
Cornuta,'  but  that  he  does  not  know  himself  if  it  is  violet  or 
pansy.  I  take  my  Loudon  again,  and  find  there  were  fifty- 
three  species  of  violets,  known  in  his  days,  of  which,  as  it 
chances,  Cornuta  is  exactly  the  last. 

'Horned  violet'  :  I  said  the  green  things  were  like  horns  ! 
— but  what  is  one  to  say  of,  or  to  do  to,  scientific  people,  who 
first  call  the  spur  of  the  violet's  petal,  horn,  and  then  its 
calyx  points,  horns,  and  never  define  a  £  horn  '  all  the  while  ! 

Viola  Cornuta,  however,  let  it  be  ;  for  the  name  does  mean 
something,  and  is  not  false  Latin.  But  whether  violet  or 
pansy,  I  must  look  farther  to  find  out. 

23.  I  take  the  Flora  Danica,  in  which  I  at  least  am  sure  of 
finding  wThatever  is  clone  at  all,  done  as  well  as  honesty  and 
care  can  ;  and  look  what  species  of  violets  it  gives. 

Nine,  in  the  first  ten  volumes  of  it ;  four  in  their  modern 
sequel  (that  I  know  of, — I  have  had  no  time  to  examine  the 
last  issues).  Namely,  in  alphabetical  order,  with  their  pres- 
ent Latin,  or  tentative  Latin,  names  ;  and  in  plain  English, 
the  senses  intended  by  the  hapless  scientific  people,  in  such 
their  tentative  Latin  : — 


(1)  Viola  Arvensis       Field  (Violet)  No.  1748 

(2)  "    Biflora.         Two-flowered   46 

(3)  "    Canina.         Dog  1453 

(3b)    "    Canina.  Var.  Multicaulis  (many-stemmed), 

a  very  singular  sort  of  violet — if  it  were 
so  !  Its  real  difference  from  our  dog- 
violet  is  in  being  pale  blue,  and  having  a 


golden  centre   2646 

(4)  "    Hirta.           Hairy   618 

(5)  "    Mirabilis.      Marvellous.    .......  1045 

(6)  "    Montana.      Mountain   1329 

(7)  "    Odorata.       Odorous   309 

(8)  "    Palustris.      Marshy   83 


176 


PROSERPINA. 


(9)  Viola  Tricolor.       Three-coloured   628 

(9b)    "    Tricolor.       Var.  Arenaria,  Sandy  Three- 
coloured    2647 

(10)  "    Elatior.         Taller   68 

(11)  "    Epipsila.       (Heaven  knows  what :   it  is 

Greek,  not  Latin,  and  looks  as  if  it  meant 
something  between  a  bishop  and  a  short 
letter  e)   2405 


I  next  run  down  this  list,  noting  what  names  we  can  keep, 
and  what  we  can't ;  and  what  aren't  worth  keeping,  if  we 
could  :  passing  over  the  varieties,  however,  for  the  present, 
wholly. 

(1)  Arvensis.    Field-violet.  Good. 

(2)  Biflora.      A  good  epithet,  but  in  false  Latin.    It  is  to  be 

our  Viola  aurea,  golden  pansy. 

(3)  Canina.      Dog.    Not   pretty,  but  intelligible,  and  by 

common  use  now  classical.    Must  stay. 

(4)  Hirta.        Late  Latin  slang  for  hirsuta,  and  always  used 

of  nasty  places  or  nasty  people  ;  it  shall  not  stay. 
The  species  shall  be  our  Viola  Seclusa, — Monk's 
violet — meaning  the  kind  of  monk  who  leads  a 
rough  life  like  Elijah's,  or  the  Baptist's,  or  Esau's — 
in  another  kind.  This  violet  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
that  grows. 

(5)  Mirabilis.    Stays  so  ;  marvellous  enough,  truly  :  not  more 

so  than  all  violets ;  but  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of 
scientific  people  capable  of  admiring  anything. 

(6)  Montana.    Stays  so. 

(7)  Odorata.    Not   distinctive ; — nearly    classical,  however. 

It  is  to  be  our  Viola  Eegina,  else  I  should  not  have 
altered  it. 

(8)  Palustris.    Stays  so. 

(9)  Tricolor.    True,  but  intolerable.    The  flower  is  the  queen 

of  the  true  pansies :  to  be  our  Viola  Psyche. 

(10)  Elatior.     Only  a  variety  of  our  already  accepted  Coi- 

nuta. 


VIOLA. 


177 


(11)  The  last  is,  I  believe,  also  only  a  variety  of  Palustris. 
Its  leaves,  I  am  informed  in  the  text,  are  either 
"  pubescent-reticulate-venose-subreniform,"  or  "  lato- 
cordate-repando-crenate  ;  "  and  its  stipules  are 
"  ovate-acuminate-fimbrio-denticulate."  I  do  not 
wish  to  pursue  the  inquiry  farther. 

24.  These  ten  species  will  include,  noting  here  and  there 
a  local  variety,  all  the  forms  which  are  familiar  to  us  in  North- 
ern "Europe,  except  only  two  ; — these,  as  it  singularly  chances, 
being  the  Viola  Alpium,  noblest  of  all  the  wild  pansies  in  the 
world,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  or  heard  of  them, — of  which,  con- 
sequently, I  find  no  picture,  nor  notice,  in  any  botanical  work 
whatsoever  ;  and  the  other,  the  rock-violet  of  our  own  York- 
shire hills. 

We  have  therefore,  ourselves,  finally  then,  twelve  following 
species  to  study.  I  give  them  now  all  in  their  accepted 
names  and  proper  order, — the  reasons  for  occasional  differ- 
ence between  the  Latin  and  English  name  will  be  presently 
given. 


(1)  Viola  Eegina. 

Queen  violet. 

(2) 

<( 

Psyche. 

Ophelia's  pansy. 

(3) 

c< 

Alpium. 

Freneli's  pansy. 

(4) 

(( 

Aurea. 

Golden  violet. 

(5) 

St 

Montana. 

Mountain  violet. 

(6) 

(C 

Mirabilis. 

Marvellous  violet 

(7) 

a 

Arvensis. 

Field  violet. 

(8) 

a 

Palustris. 

Marsh  violet. 

(9) 

(C 

Seclusa. 

Monk's  violet. 

(10) 

u 

Canina. 

Dog  violet. 

(11) 

it 

Cornuta. 

Cow  violet. 

(12) 

(( 

Rupestris. 

Crag  violet. 

25.  We  will  try,  presently,  what  is  to  be  found  out  of  use- 
ful, or  pretty,  concerning  all  these  twelve  violets ;  but  must 
first  find  out  how  we  are  to  know  which  are  violets  indeed, 
and  which,  pansies, 


178 


PROSERPINA. 


Yesterday,  after  finishing  my  list,  I  went  out  again  to  ex- 
amine Viola  Cornuta  a  little  closer,  and  pulled  up  a  full  grip 
of  it  by  the  roots,  and  put  it  in  water  in  a  wash-hand  basin, 
which  it  filled  like  a  truss  of  green  hay. 

Pulling  out  two  or  three  separate  plants,  I  find  each  to  con- 
sist mainly  of  a  jointed  stalk  of  a  kind  I  have  not  yet  de- 
scribed,— roughly,  some  two  feet  long  altogether  ;  (accurate- 
ly, one  1  ft.  10^  in.  ;  another,  1  ft.  10  in.  ;  another,  1  ft.  9  in. 
— but  all  these  measures  taken  without  straightening,  and 
therefore  about  an  inch  short  of  the  truth),  and  divided  into 
seven  or  eight  lengths  by  clumsy  joints  where  the  mangled 
leafage  is  knotted  on  it ;  but  broken  a  little  out  of  the  way  at 
each  joint,  like  a  rheumatic  elbow  that  won't  come  straight, 
or  bend  farther  ;  and — which  is  the  most  curious  point  of  all 
in  it — it  is  thickest  in  the  middle,  like  a  viper,  and  gets  quite 
thin  to  the  root  and  thin  towards  the  flower  ;  also  the  lengths 
between  the  joints  are  longest  in  the  middle  :  here  I  give 
them  in  inches,  from  the  root  upwards,  in  a  stalk  taken  at 
random. 


1st  (nearest  root)       ....  Of 

2nd    Of 

3rd    H 

4th    If 

5th  ......  3 

6th    4 

7th    Si 

8th    3 

9th  .      ^       .       .       .  2J 

10th    U 


1  ft.  9f  in. 

But  the  thickness  of  the  joints  and  length  of  terminal  flower 
stalk  bring  the  total  to  two  feet  and  about  an  inch  over.  I 
dare  not  pull  it  straight,  or  should  break  it,  but  it  overlaps 
my  two-foot  rule  considerably,  and  there  are  two  inches  be- 
sides of  root,  which  are  merely  underground  stem,  very  thin 
and  wretched,  as  the  rest  of  it  is  merely  root  above  ground, 


VIOLA. 


179 


very  thick  and  bloated.  (I  begin  actually  to  be  a  little  awed 
at  it,  as  I  should  be  by  a  green  snake — only  the  snake  would 
be  prettier.)  The  flowers  also,  I  perceive,  have  not  their  two 
horns  regularly  set  in,  but  the  five  spiky  calyx-ends  stick  out 
between  the  petals — sometimes  three,  sometimes  four,  it  may 
be  all  five  up  and  down — and  produce  variously  fanged  or 
forked  effects,  feebly  ophidian  or  diabolic.  On  the  whole,  a 
plant  entirely  mismanaging  itself, — reprehensible  and  awk- 
ward, with  taints  of  worse  than  awkardness  ;  and  clearly,  no 
true  '  species,'  but  only  a  link.*  And  it  really  is,  as  you  will 
find  presently,  a  link  in  two  directions  ;  it  is  half  violet,  half 
pansy,  a  '  cur  '  among  the  Dogs,  and  a  thoughtless  thing  among 
the  thoughtful.  And  being  so,  it  is  also  a  link  between  the 
entire  violet  tribe  and  the  Runners — pease,  strawberries,  and 
the  like,  whose  glory  is  in  their  speed  ;  but  a  violet  has  no 
business  whatever  to  run  anywhere,  being  appointed  to  stay 
where  it  was  born,  in  extremely  contented  (if  not  secluded) 
places.  "  Half-hidden  from  the  eye  ?  " — no  ;  but  desiring  at- 
tention, or  extension,  or  corpulence,  or  connection  with  any- 
body else's  family,  still  less. 

26.  And  if,  at  the  time  you  read  this,  you  can  run  out 
and  gather  a  true  violet,  and  its  leaf,  you  will  find  that  the 
flower  grows  from  the  very  ground,  out  of  a  cluster  of  heart- 
shaped  leaves,  becoming  here  a  little  rounder,  there  a  little 
sharper,  but  on  the  whole  heart-shaped,  and  that  is  the 
proper  and  essential  form  of  the  violet  leaf.  You  will  find  also 
that  the  flowTer  has  five  petals  ;  and  being  held  down  by  the 
bent  stalk,  two  of  them  bend  back  and  up,  as  if  resisting  it  ; 
two  expand  at  the  sides  ;  and  one,  the  principal,  grows  down- 
wards, with  its  attached  spur  behind.  So  that  the  front  view 
of  the  flower  must  be  some  modification  of  this  typical  ar- 
rangement, Fig.  m,  (for  middle  form).  Now  the  statement 
above  quoted  from  Figuier,  §  16,  means,  if  he  had  been  able 
to  express  himself,  that  the  two  lateral  petals  in  the  violet  are 
directed  downwards,  Fig.  11.  a,  and  in  the  pansy  upwards, 
Fig.  11.  c.  And  that,  in  the  main,  is  true,  and  to  be  fixed 
well  and  clearly  in  your  mind.  But  in  the  real  orders,  one 
*See  4  Deucalion,'  vol.  h\,  chap,  i.,  p.  13,  §  18. 


180 


PROSERPINA. 


flower  passes  into  the  other  through  all  kinds  of  intermediate 
positions  of  petal,  and  the  plurality  of  species  are  of  the  mid- 
dle type,  Fig.  n.  b.* 

27.  Next,  if  you  will  gather  a  real  pansy  leaf,  you  will  find 
it — not  heart-shape  in  the  least,  but  sharp  oval 
or  spear-shape,  with  two  deep  cloven  lateral  flakes 
at  its  springing  from  the  stalk,  which,  in  ordinary 
aspect,  give  the  plant  the  haggled  and  draggled 
look  I  have  been  vilifying  it  for.  These,  and 
such  as  these,  "leaflets  at  the  base  of  other 
leaves  "  (Balfour's  Glossary),  are  called  by  bot- 
anists 1  stipules. '  I  have  not  allowed  the  word 
yet,  and  am  doubtful  of  allowing  it,  because  it 
entirely  confuses  the  student's  sense  of  the  Latin 
'stipula'  (see  above,  vol.  i.,  chap,  viii.,  §  27) 
doubly  and  trebly  important  in  its  connection 
with  '  stipulor,'  not  noticed  in  that  paragraph, 
but  readable  in  your  large  Johnson  ;  we  shall 
have  more  to  say  of  it  when  we  come  to  '  straw 9 
itself. 

28.  In  the  meantime,  one  may  think  of  these 
things  as  stipulations  for  leaves,  not  fulfilled,  or 
1  stumps  '  or  '  sumphs '  of  leaves  !  But  I  think  I  can  do  better 
for  them.  We  have  already  got  the  idea  of  crested  leaves,  (see 
vol.  i.,  plate)  ;  now,  on  each  side  of  a  knight's  crest,  from  earliest 
Etruscan  times  down  to  those  of  the  Scalas,  the  fashion  of  ar- 
mour held,  among  the  nations  who  wished  to  make  themselves 
terrible  in  aspect,  of  putting  cut  plates  or  '  bracts  '  of  metal,  like 
dragons'  wings,  on  each  side  of  the  crest.  I  believe  the  cus- 
tom never  became  Norman  or  English  ;  it  is  essentially  Greek, 
Etruscan,  or  Italian, — the  Norman  and  Dane  always  wearing 
a  practical  cone  (see  the  coins  of  Canute),  and  the  Frank  or 
English  knights  the  severely  plain  beavered  helmet  ;  the  Black 
Prince's  at  Canterbury,  and  Henry  V.'s  at  Westminster,  are 
kept  hitherto  by  the  great  fates  for  us  to  see.  But  the  South- 
ern knights  constantly  wore  these  lateral  dragon's  wings ; 

*  I  am  ashamed  to  give  so  rude  outlines  ;  but  every  moment  now  if 
valuable  to  me  :  careful  outline  of  a  dog-violet  is  given  in  Plate  X 


Plate  X. — Viola  Canina.    Structural  Details 


VIOLA. 


181 


and  if  I  can  find  their  special  name,  it  may  perhaps  be  substi- 
tuted with  advantage  for  '  stipule'  ;  but  I  have  not  wit 
enough  by  me  just  now  to  invent  a  term. 

29.  Whatever  we  call  them,  the  things  themselves  are, 
throughout  all  the  species  of  violets,  developed  in  the  run- 
ning and  weedy  varieties,  and  much  subdued  in  the  beautiful 
ones  ;  and  generally  the  pansies  have  them  large,  with  spear- 
shaped  central  leaves ;  and  the  violets  small,  with  heart- 
shaped  leaves,  for  more  effective  decoration  of  the  ground.  I 
now  note  the  characters  of  each  species  in  their  above  given 
order. 

30.  I.  Viola  Regina.  Queen  Violet.  Sweet  Violet.  '  Viola 
Odorata/  L.,  Flora  Danica,  and  Sowerby.  The  latter  draws 
it  with  golden  centre  and  white  base  of  lower  petal  ;  the  Flora 
Danica,  all  purple.  It  is  sometimes  altogether  white.  It  is 
seen  most  perfectly  for  setting  off  its  colour,  in  group  with 
primrose, — and  most  luxuriantly,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  hollows 
of  the  Savoy  limestones,  associated  with  the  pervenche,  which 
embroiders  and  illumines  them  all  over.  I  believe  it  is  the 
earliest  of  its  race,  sometimes  called  '  Martia/  March  violet. 
In  Greece  and  South  Italy  even  a  flower  of  the  winter. 

4 1  The  Spring  is  come,  the  violet's  gones 
The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun. 
With  us,  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower ; 
The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower, 
And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 
To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  selfsame  hue. 
And  when  the  Spring  comes,  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour,  and  virgin  hues. 

Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December, — 
The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthened  hours, 
Nor,  midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet."  * 

*  A  careless  bit  of  Byron's,  (the  last  song  but  one  in  the  *  Deformed 
Transformed  ') ;  but  Byron's  most  careless  work  is  better,  by  its  innate 


182 


PROSERPINA. 


31.  It  is  the  queen,  not  only  of  the  violet  tribe,  but  of  all 
tow-growing  flowers,  in  sweetness  of  scent — variously  appli- 
cable and  serviceable  in  domestic  economy  : — the  scent  of  the 
lily  of  the  valley  seems  less  capable  of  preservation  or  use. 

But,  respecting  these  perpetual  beneficences  and  benignities 
of  the  sacred,  as  opposed  to  the  malignant,  herbs,  whose 
poisonous  power  is  for  the  most  part  restrained  in  them,  dur- 
ing their  life,  to  their  juices  or  dust,  and  not  allowed  sensibly 
to  pollute  the  air,  I  should  like  the  scholar  to  re-read  pp.  240, 
241  of  vol.  i.,  and  then  to  consider  with  himself  what  a  gro- 
tesquely warped  and  gnarled  thing  the  modern  scientific 
mind  is,  which  fiercely  busies  itself  in  venomous  chemistries 
that  blast  every  leaf  from  the  forests  ten  miles  round  ;  and  yet 
cannot  tell  us,  nor  even  think  of  telling  us,  nor  does  even  one 
of  its  pupils  think  of  asking  it  all  the  while,  how  a  violet  throws 
off  her  perfume  ! — far  less,  whether  it  might  not  be  more 
wholesome  to  '  treat '  the  air  which  men  are  to  breathe  in 
masses,  by  administration  of  vale-lilies  and  violets,  instead  of 
charcoal  and  sulphur ! 

The  closing  sentence  of  the  first  volume  just  now  referred 
to — p.  243 — should  also  be  re-read  ;  it  was  the  sum  of  a  chap- 
ter I  had  in  hand  at  that  time  on  the  Substances  and  Essences 
of  Plants— which  never  got  finished  ; — and  in  trying  to  put 
it  into  small  space,  it  has  become  obscure:  the  terms  " logi- 
cally inexplicable  "  meaning  that  no  words  or  process  of  com- 
parison will  define  scents,  nor  do  any  traceable  modes  of  se- 
quence or  relation  connect  them  ;  each  is  an  independent 
power,  and  gives  a  separate  impression  to  the  senses.  Above 
all,  there  is  no  logic  of  pleasure,  nor  any  assignable  reason  for 
the  difference,  between  loathsome  and  delightful  scent,  which 
makes  the  fungus  foul  and  the  vervain  sacred  :  but  one  prac- 
tical conclusion  I  (who  am  in  all  final  ways  the  most  prosaic 
and  practical  of  human  creatures)  do  very  solemnly  beg  my 
readers  to  meditate  ;  namely,  that  although  not  recognized  by 

energy,  than  other  people's  most  laboured.  I  suppress,  in  some  doubts 
about  my  'digamma,'  notes  on  the  Greek  violet  and  the  Ion  of 
Euripides  ; — which  the  reader  will  perhaps  be  good  enough  to  ian  ?y  a 
serious  loss  to  him,  and  supply  for  himself. 


VIOLA. 


183 


actual  offensiveness  of  scent,  there  is  no  space  of  neglected 
land  which  is  not  in  some  way  modifying  the  atmosphere  of 
all  the  world, — it  may  be,  beneficently,  as  heath  and  pine, — it 
may  be,  malignantly,  as  Pontine  marsh  or  Brazilian  jungle  ; 
but,  in  one  way  or  another,  for  good  and  evil  constantly,  by 
day  and  night,  the  various  powers  of  life  and  death  in  the 
plants  of  the  desert  are  poured  into  the  air,  as  vials  of  con- 
tinual angels  :  and  that  no  words,  no  thoughts  can  measure, 
nor  imagination  follow,  the  possible  change  for  good  which 
energetic  and  tender  care  of  the  wild  herbs  of  the  field  and 
trees  of  the  wood  might  bring,  in  time,  to  the  bodily  pleasure 
and  mental  power  of  Man. 

32.  II.  Viola  Psyche.    Ophelia's  Pansy. 

The  wild  heart's-ease  of  Europe  ;  its  proper  colour  an  ex- 
quisitely clear  purple  in  the  upper  petals,  gradated  into  deep 
blue  in  the  lower  ones  ;  the  centre,  gold.  Not  larger  than  a 
violet,  but  perfectly  formed,  and  firmly  set  in  all  its  petals. 
Able  to  live  in  the  driest  ground  ;  beautiful  in  the  coast  sand- 
hills of  Cumberland,  following  the  wild  geranium  and  burnet 
rose  :  and  distinguished  thus  by  its  power  of  life,  in  waste  and 
dry  places,  from  the  violet,  which  needs  kindly  earth  and 
shelter. 

Quite  one  of  the  most  lovely  things  that  Heaven  has  made, 
and  only  degraded  and  distorted  by  any  human  interference  ; 
the  swollen  varieties  of  it  produced  by  cultivation  being  all 
gross  in  outline  and  coarse  in  colour  by  comparison. 

It  is  badly  drawn  even  in  the  '  Flora  Danica,'  No.  623,  con- 
sidered there  apparently  as  a  species  escaped  from  gardens  ; 
the  description  of  it  being  as  follows  : — 

ff  Viola  tricolor  hortensis  repens,  flore  purpureo  et  cceruleo, 
C.  B.  P.,  199."  (I  don't  know  what  C.  B.  P.  means.)  "Pas- 
sim, juxta  villas." 

"  Viola  tricolor,  caule  triquetro  diffuso,  foliis  oblongis  in- 
cisis,  stipulis  pinnatifidis,"  Linn.  Sy sterna  Naturae,  185. 

33.  "  Near  the  country  farms  " — does  the  Danish  botanist 
mean? — the  more  luxuriant  weedy  character  probably  ac- 
quired by  it  only  in  such  neighbourhood  ;  and,  I  suppose, 
various  confusion  and  degeneration  possible  to  it  beyond  other 


184 


PROSERPINA. 


plants  when  once  it  leaves  its  wild  home.  It  is  given  by  Sib* 
thorpe  from  the  Trojan  Olympus,  with  an  exquisitely  delicate 
leaf ;  the  flower  described  as  "  triste  et  pallide  violaceus," 
but  coloured  in  his  plate  full  purple  ;  and  as  he  does  not  say 
whether  he  went  up  Olympus  to  gather  it  himself,  or  only  saw 
it  brought  down  by  the  assistant  whose  lovely  drawings  are 
yet  at  Oxford,  I  take  leave  to  doubt  his  epithets.  That  this 
should  be  the  only  Violet  described  in  a  ?  Flora  Grseca '  ex- 
tending to  ten  folio  volumes,  is  a  fact  in  modern  scientific  his- 
tory which  I  must  leave  the  Professor  of  Botany  and  the  Dean 
of  Christ  Church  to  explain. 

34  The  English  varieties  seem  often  to  be  yellow  in  the 
lower  petals,  (see  Sowerby's  plate,  1287  of  the  old  edition) ; 
crossed,  I  imagine,  with  Viola  Aurea,  (but  see  under  Viola 
Rupestris,  No.  12)  ;  the  names,  also,  varying  between  tricolor 
and  bicolor — with  no  note  anywhere  of  the  three  colours,  or 
two  colours,  intended ! 

The  old  English  names  are  many. — £  Love  in  idleness,' — 
making  Lysander,  as  Titania,  much  wandering  in  mind,  and 
for  a  time  mere  '  Kits  run  the  street '  (or  run  the  wood  ?) — 
"Call  me  to  you"  (Gerarde,  ch.  299,  Sowerby,  No.  178),  with 
'  Herb  Trinity,'  from  its  three  colours,  blue,  purple,  and  gold, 
variously  blended  in  different  countries  ?  '  Three  faces  under 
a  hood '  describes  the  English  variety  only.  Said  to  be  the 
ancestress  of  all  the  florists'  pansies,  but  this  I  much  doubt, 
the  next  following  species  being  far  nearer  the  forms  most 
chiefly  sought  for. 

35.  III.  Viola  Alpina.  'Freneli's  Pansy' — my  own  name 
for  it,  from  Gotthelf  s  Freneli,  in  •  Ulric  the  Farmer '  ;  the  en- 
tirely pure  and  noble  t}rpe  of  the  Bernese  maid,  wife,  and 
mother. 

The  pansy  of  the  Wengern  Alp  in  specialty,  and  of  the 
higher,  but  still  rich,  Alpine  pastures.  Full  dark-purple  ;  at 
least  an  inch  across  the  expanded  petals  ;  I  believe,  the  '  Mater 
Violarum  '  of  Gerarde  ;  and  true  black  violet  of  Virgil,  remain- 
ing in  Italian  '  Viola  Mammola  '  (Gerarde,  ch.  298). 

36.  IV.  Viola  Aurea.  Golden  Violet.  Biflora  usually  ;  but 
its  brilliant  yellow  is  a  much  more  definite  characteristic  ;  and 


VIOLA. 


185 


needs  insisting  on,  because  there  is  a  'Viola  lutea'  which  is 
not  yellow  at  all ;  named  so  by  the  garden-florists.  My  Viola 
aurea  is  the  Kock-violet  of  the  Alps ;  one  of  the  bravest, 
brightest,  and  dearest  of  little  flowers.  The  following  notes 
upon  it,  with  its  summer  companions,  a  little  corrected  from 
my  diary  of  1877,  will  enough  characterize  it. 

"  June  1th. — The  cultivated  meadows  now  grow  only  dan- 
delions— in  frightful  quantity  too  ;  but,  for  wild  ones,  primula, 
bell  gentian,  golden  pansy,  and  anemone, — Primula  farinosa 
in  mass,  the  pansy  pointing  and  vivifying  in  a  petulant  sweet 
way,  and  the  bell  gentian  here  and  there  deepening  all, — as  if 
indeed  the  sound  of  a  deep  bell  among  lighter  music. 

"  Counted  in  order,  I  find  the  effectively  constant  flowers 
are  eight ;  *  namely, 

"  1.  The  golden  anemone,  with  richly  cut  large  leaf  ;  prim- 
rose colour,  and  in  masses  like  primrose,  studded  through 
them  with  bell  gentian,  and  dark  purple  orchis. 

"  2.  The  dark  purple  orchis,  with  bell  gentian  in  equal 
quantity,  say  six  of  each  in  square  yard,  broken  by  sparklings 
of  the  white  orchis  and  the  white  grass  flower  ;  the  richest 
piece  of  colour  I  ever  saw,  touched  with  gold  by  the  geum. 

"  3  and  4.  These  will  be  white  orchis  and  the  grass  flower. f 

"  5.  Geum — everywhere,  in  deep,  but  pure,  gold,  like 
pieces  of  Greek  mosaic. 

"6.  Soldanclla,  in  the  lower  meadows,  delicate,  but  not 
here  in  masses. 

"  7.  Primula  Alpina,  divine  in  the  rock  clefts,  and  on  the 
ledges  changing  the  grey  to  purple, — set  in  the  dripping  caves 
with 

"  80  Viola  (pertinax — pert)  ;  I  want  a  Latin  word  for  various 
studies — failures  all — to  express  its  saucy  little  stuck-up  way, 

*  Nine  ;  I  see  that  I  missed  count  of  P.  farinosa,  the  most  abundant 
of  all. 

f  u  A  feeble  little  quatref oil— growing  one  on  the  stem,  like  a  Par- 
nassia,  and  looking  like  a  Parnassia  that  had  dropped  a  leaf.  I  think  it 
drops  one  of  its  own  four,  mostly,  and  lives  as  three-fourths  of  itself,  for 
most  of  its  time.  Stamens  pale  gold.  Root-leaves,  three  or  four,  grass- 
like ;  growing  among  the  moist  moss  chiefly." 


186 


PROSERPINA. 


and  exquisitely  trim  peltate  leaf.  I  never  saw  such  a  lovely 
perspective  line  as  the  pure  front  leaf  profile.  Impossible  also 
to  get  the  least  of  the  spirit  of  its  lovely  dark  brown  fibre 
markings.  Intensely  golden  these  dark  fibres,  just  browning 
the  petal  a  little  between  them." 

And  again  in  the  defile  of  Gondo,  I  find  "  Viola  (saxatilis?) 
name  yet  wanted  ; — in  the  most  delicate  studding  of  its  round 
leaves,  like  a  small  fern  more  than  violet,  and  bright  sparkle 
of  small  flowers  in  the  dark  dripping  hollows.  Assuredly  de- 
lights in  shade  and  distilling  moisture  of  rocks." 

I  found  afterwards  a  much  larger  yellow  pansy  on  the 
Yorkshire  high  limestones  ;  with  vigorously  black  crowfoot 
marking  on  the  lateral  petals. 

37.  V.  Viola  Montana.    Mountain  Violet. 

Flora  Danica,  1329.  Linnaeus,  No.  13,  "  Caulibus  erectis, 
foliis  cordato-lanceolatis,  floribus  serioribus  apetalis,"  i.e.,  on 
erect  stems,  with  leaves  long  heart-shape,  and  its  later  flowers 
without  petals — not  a  word  said  of  its  earlier  flowers  which 
have  got  those  unimportant  appendages  !  In  the  plate  of  the 
Flora  it  is  a  very  perfect  transitional  form  between  violet  and 
pansy,  with  beautifully  firm  and  well-curved  leaves,  but  the 
colour  of  blossom  very  pale.  "  In  subalpinis  Norvegise  pas- 
sim," all  that  we  are  told  of  it,  means  I  suppose,  in  the  lower 
Alpine  pastures  of  Norway  ;  in  the  Flora  Suecica,  p.  306,  hab- 
itat in  Lapponica,  juxta  Alpes. 

38.  VI.  Viola  Mirabilis.  Flora  Danica,  1045.  il  small  and 
exquisitely  formed  flower  in  the  balanced  cinquefoil  inter- 
mediate between  violet  and  pansy,  but  with  large  and  superbly 
curved  and  pointed  leaves.  It  is  a  mountain  violet,  but  be- 
longing rather  to  the  mountain  woods  than  meadows.  "In 
sylvaticis  in  Toten,  Norvegise." 

Loudon,  3056,  "Broad-leaved:  German}7." 

Linnaeus,  Flora  Suecica,  789,  says  that  the  flowers  of  it  which 
have  perfect  corolla  and  full  scent  often  bear  no  seed,  but 
that  the  later  '  cauline '  blossoms,  without  petals,  are  fertile. 
"  Caulini  vero  apetali  fertiles  sunt,  et  seriores.  Habitat  pas- 
sim Upsalise." 

I  find  this,  and  a  plurality  of  other  species,  indicated  by 


VIOLA. 


187 


Linnaeus  as  having  triangular  stalks,  "  caule  triquetro,"  mean- 
ing, I  suppose,  the  kind  sketched  in  Figure  1  above. 

39.  VII.  Viola  Arvensis.  Field  Violet.  Flora  Danica,  1748. 
A  coarse  running  weed ;  nearly  like  Viola  Cornuta,  but 
feebly  lilac  and  yellow  in  colour.   In  dry  fields,  and  with  corn. 

Flora  Suecica,  791  ;  under  titles  of  Viola  £  tricolor  '  and  'bi- 
color  arvensis,'  and  Herba  Trinitatis.  Habitat  ubique  in  steri- 
libus  arvis  :  c<Planta  vix  datur  in  qua  evidentius  perspicitur 
generationis  opus,  quam  in  hujus  cavo  apertoque  stigmate." 

It  is  quite  undeterminable,  among  present  botanical  in- 
structors, how  far  this  plant  is  only  a  rampant  and  over-in- 
dulged condition  of  the  true  pansy  (Viola  Psyche)  ;  but  my 
own  scholars  are  to  remember  that  the  true  pansy  is  full 
purple  and  blue  with  golden  centre  ;  and  that  the  disorderly 
field  varieties  of  it,  if  indeed  not  scientifically  distinguishable, 
are  entirely  separate  from  the  wild  flower  by  their  scattered 
form  and  faded  or  altered  colour.  I  follow  the  Flora  Danica 
in  giving  them  as  a  distinct  species. 

40.  VIII.  Viola  Palustpjs.  Marsh  Violet.  Flora  Danica, 
83.  As  there  drawn,  the  most  finished  and  delicate  in  form 
of  all  the  violet  tribe  ;  warm  white,  streaked  with  red  ;  and  as 
pure  in  outline  as  an  oxalis,  both  in  flower  and  leaf  ;  it  is  like 
a  violet  imitating  oxalis  and  anagallis. 

In  the  Flora  Suecica,  the  petal-markings  are  said  to  be 
black  ;  in  '  Viola  lactea 9  a  connected  species,  (Sowerby,  45,) 
purple.  Sowerby's  plate  of  it  under  the  name  1  palustris '  is 
pale  purple  veined  with  darker ;  and  the  spur  is  said  to  be 
'  honey-bearing/  which  is  the  first  mention  I  find  of  honey  in 
the  violet.  The  habitat  given,  sandy  and  turfy  heaths.  It  is 
said  to  grow  plentifully  near  Croydon. 

Probably,  therefore,  a  violet  belonging  to  the  chalk,  on 
which  nearly  all  herbs  that  grow  wild — from  the  grass  to  the 
bluebell — are  singularly  sweet  and  pure.  I  ho23e  some  of  my 
botanical  scholars  will  take  up  this  question  of  the  effect  of 
different  rocks  on  vegetation,  not  so  much  in  bearing  different 
species  of  plants,  as  different  characters  of  each  species.* 

*  The  great  work  of  Lecoq,  *  Geographic  Botanique,'  is  of  priceless 
value  ;  but  treats  all  on  too  vast  a  scale  for  our  purposes. 


188 


PROSERPINA. 


41.  IX.  Viola  Seclusa.  Monk's  Violet.  "Hirta,"  Flora 
Danica,  618,  "  In  fruticetis  raro."  A  true  wood  violet,  full  but 
dim  in  purple.  Sowerby,  894,  makes  it  paler.  The  leaves  very 
pure  and  severe  in  the  Danish  one  ; — longer  in  the  English, 
"  Clothed  on  both  sides  with  short,  dense,  hoary  hairs.1' 

Also  belongs  to  chalk  or  limestone  only  (Sowerby). 

X.  Viola  Canina.  Dog  Violet.  I  have  taken  it  for  analysis 
in  my  two  plates,  because  its  grace  of  form  is  too  much  de- 
spised, and  we  owe  much  more  of  the  beauty  of  spring  to  it, 
in  English  mountain  ground,  than  to  the  Eegina. 

XI.  Viola  Cornuta.  Cow  Violet.  Enough  described  already. 

XII.  Viola  Eupestris.  Crag  Violet.  On  the  high  limestone 
moors  of  Yorkshire,  perhaps  only  an  English  form  of  Viola 
Aurea,  but  so  much  larger,  and  so  different  in  habit — growing 
on  dry  breezy  downs,  instead  of  in  dripping  caves — that  I 
allow  it,  for  the  present,  separate  name  and  number.* 

42.  'For  the  present,' I  say  all  this  work  in  'Proserpina' 
being  merely  tentative,  much  to  be  modified  by  future  students, 
and  therefore  quite  different  from  that  of  '  Deucalion,'  which 
is  authoritative  as  far  as  it  reaches,  and  will  stand  out  like 
a  quartz  dyke,  as  the  sandy  speculations  of  modern  gossiping 
geologists  get  washed  away. 

But  in  the  meantime,  I  must  again  solemnly  warn  my  girl- 
readers  against  all  study  of  floral  genesis  and  digestion.  How 
far  flowers  invite,  or  require,  flies  to  interfere  in  their  family 
affairs — which  of  them  are  carnivorous — and  what  forms  of 
pestilence  or  infection  are  most  favourable  to  some  vegetable 
and  animal  growths, — let  them  leave  the  people  to  settle  who 
like,  as  Toinette  says  of  the  Doctor  in  the  '  Malade  Imaginaire ' 
« — "y  mettre  le  nez."  I  observe  a  paper  in  the  last  'Contempo- 
rary Eeview,5  announcing  for  a  discovery  patent  to  all  mankind 
that  the  colours  of  flowers  were  made  "to  attract  insects"  !  f 

*  It  is,  I  believe,  Sowerby's  Viola  Lutea,  721  of  the  old  edition,  there 
painted  with  purple  upper  petals  ;  but  he  says  in  the  text,  "  Petals 
either  all  yellow,  or  the  two  uppermost  are  of  a  blue  purple,  the  rest 
yellow  with  a  blue  tinge  :  very  often  the  whole  are  purple." 

f  Did  the  wretch  never  hear  bees  in  a  lime  tree  then,  or  ever  see  one 
on  a  star  gentian  ? 


VIOLA. 


189 


They  will  next  hear  that  the  rose  was  made  for  the  canker, 
and  the  body  of  man  for  the  worm. 

43.  What  the  colours  of  flowers,  or  of  birds,  or  of  precioUi 
stones,  or  of  the  sea  and  air,  and  the  blue  mountains,  and  the 
evening  and  the  morning,  and  the  clouds  of  Heaven,  were 
given  for — they  only  know  who  can  see  them  and  can  feel,  and 
who  pray  that  the  sight  and  the  love  of  them  may  be  prolonged, 
where  cheeks  will  not  fade,  nor  sunsets  die. 

44.  And  now,  to  close,  let  me  give  you  some  fuller  account 
of  the  reasons  for  the  naming  of  the  order  to  which  the  violet 
belongs,  '  Cytherides.' 

You  see  that  the  Uranides,  are,  as  far  as  I  could  so  gather 
them,  of  the  pure  blue  of  the  sky  ;  but  the  Cytherides  of  al- 
tered blue ; — the  first,  Viola,  typically  purple  ;  the  second, 
Veronica,  pale  blue  with  a  peculiar  light ;  the  third,  Giulietta, 
deep  blue,  passing  strangely  into  a  subdued  green  before  and 
after  the  full  life  of  the  flower. 

All  these  three  flowers  have  great  strangenesses  in  them, 
and  weaknesses  ;  the  Veronica  most  wonderful  in  its  connec- 
tion with  the  poisonous  tribe  of  the  foxgloves  ;  the  Giulietta, 
alone  among  flowers  in  the  action  of  the  shielding  leaves  ;  and 
the  Viola,  grotesque  and  inexplicable  in  its  hidden  structure, 
but  the  most  sacred  of  all  flowers  to  earthly  and  daily  Love, 
both  in  its  scent  and  glow. 

Now,  therefore,  let  us  look  completely  for  the  meaning  of 
the  two  leading  lines, — 

? 4  Sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath." 

45.  Since,  in  my  present  writings,  I  hope  to  bring  into  one 
focus  the  pieces  of  study  fragmentarily  given  during  past  life, 
I  may  refer  my  readers  to  the  first  chapter  of  the  '  Queen  of 
the  Air '  for  the  explanation  of  the  way  in  which  all  great 
myths  are  founded,  partly  on  physical,  partly  on  moral  fact, — 
so  that  it  is  not  possible  for  persons  who  neither  know  the 
aspect  of  nature,  nor  the  constitution  of  the  human  soul,  to 
understand  a  word  of  them.  Naming  the  Greek  Gods,  there- 
fore, you  have  first  to  think  of  the  physical  power  they  repre- 


190 


PROSERPINA. 


sent.    When  Horace  calls  Vulcan  '  Avidus,'  he  thinks  of  him 

as  the  power  of  Fire  ;  when  he  speaks  of  Jupiter's  red  right 
hand,  he  thinks  of  him  as  the  power  of  rain  with  lightning ; 
and  when  Homer  speaks  of  Juno's  dark  eyes,  you  have  to  re- 
member that  she  is  the  softer  form  of  the  rain  power,  and  to 
think  of  the  fringes  of  the  rain-cloud  across  the  light  of  the 
horizon.  Gradually  the  idea  becomes  personal  and  human 
in  the  "  Dove's  eyes  within  thy  locks,"  *  and  "  Dove's  eyes 
by  the  river  of  waters  "  of  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

46.  "Or  Cytherea's  breath," — the  two  thoughts  of  softest 
glance,  and  softest  kiss,  being  thus  together  associated  with 
the  flower  :  but  note  especially  that  the  Island  of  Cythera  was 
dedicated  to  Venus  because  it  was  the  chief,  if  not  the  only 
Greek  island,  in  which  the  purple  fishery  of  Tyre  was  estab- 
lished ;  and  in  our  own  minds  should  be  marked  not  only  as 
the  most  southern  fragment  of  true  Greece,  but  the  virtual 
continuation  of  the  chain  of  mountains  which  separate  the 
Spartan  from  the  Argive  territories,  and  are  the  natural  home 
of  the  brightest  Spartan  and  Argive  beauty  which  is  symbolized 
in  Helen. 

47.  And,  lastly,  in  accepting  for  the  order  this  name  of 
Cytherides,  you  are  to  remember  the  names  of  Viola  and 
Giulietta,  its  two  limiting  families,  as  those  of  Shakspeare's 
two  most  loving  maids — the  two  who  love  simply,  and  to  the 
death :  as  distinguished  from  the  greater  natures  in  whom 
earthly  Love  has  its  due  part,  and  no  more  ;  and  farther  still 
from  the  greatest,  in  whom  the  earthly  love  is  quiescent,  or 
subdued,  beneath  the  thoughts  of  duty  and  immortality. 

It  may  be  well  quickly  to  mark  for  you  the  levels  of  loving 
temper  in  Shakspeare's  maids  and  wives,  from  the  greatest  to 
the  least. 

48.  1.  Isabel.  All  earthly  love,  and  the  possibilities  of  it, 
held  in  absolute  subjection  to  the  laws  of  God,  and  the  judg- 
ments of  His  will.  She  is  Shakspeare's  only  '  Saint.'  Queen 
Catherine,  whom  you  might  next  think  of,  is  only  an  ordinary 

*  Septuagint,  "the  eyes  of  doves  out  of  thy  silence."  Vulgate,  "the 
eyes  of  doves,  besides  that  which  is  hidden  in  them."  Meaning — the 
dim  look  of  love,  beyond  all  others  in  sweetness. 


VIOLA. 


191 


woman  of  trained  religious  temper : — her  maid  of  honour 
gives  Wolsey  a  more  Christian  epitaph. 

2.  Cordelia.  The  earthly  love  consisting  in  diffused  com- 
passion of  the  universal  spirit ;  not  in  any  conquering,  per- 
sonally fixed,  feeling. 

"Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though,  he  had  hit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire." 

These  lines  are  spoken  in  her  hour  of  openest  direct  expres- 
sion ;  and  are  all  Cordelia. 

Shakspeare  clearly  does  not  mean  her  to  have  been  su- 
premely beautiful  in  person  ;  it  is  only  her  true  lover  who 
calls  her  '  fair  '  and  1  fairest ' — and  even  that,  I  believe,  partly 
in  courtesy,  after  having  the  instant  before  offered  her  to  his 
subordinate  duke  ;  and  it  is  only  his  scorn  of  her  which  makes 
France  fully  care  for  her. 

u  Gods,  Gods,  His  strange  that  from  their  cold  neglect 
My  love  should  kindle  to  inflamed  respect !  " 

Had  she  been  entirely  beautiful,  he  would  have  honoured  her 
as  a  lover  should,  even  before  he  saw  her  despised  ;  nor  would 
she  ever  have  been  so  despised — or  by  her  father,  misunder- 
stood. Shakspeare  himself  does  not  pretend  to  know  where 
her  girl-heart  was, — but  I  should  like  to  hear  how  a  great 
actress  would  say  the  "  Peace  be  with  Burgundy  ! " 

3.  Portia.  The  maidenly  passion  now  becoming  great,  and 
chiefly  divine  in  its  humility,  is  still  held  absolutely  subordi- 
nate to  duty  ;  no  thought  of  disobedience  to  her  dead  father's 
intention  is  entertained  for  an  instant,  though  the  temptation 
is  marked  as  passing,  for  that  instant,  before  her  crystal 
strength.  Instantly,  in  her  own  peace,  she  thinks  chiefly  of 
her  lover's ; — she  is  a  perfect  Christian  wife  in  a  moment, 
coming  to  her  husband  with  the  gift  of  perfect  Peace, — 

"  Never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul." 

She  is  highest  in  intellect  of  all  Shakspeare's  women,  and 
this  is  the  root  of  her  modesty  ;  her  6  unlettered  girl '  is  like 


192 


PROSERPIWA. 


Newton's  simile  of  the  child  on  the  sea-shore.  Her  perfect 
wit  and  stern  judgment  are  never  disturbed  for  an  instant  by 
her  happiness  :  and  the  final  key  to  her  character  is  given  in 
her  silent  and  slow  return  from  Venice,  where  she  stops  at 
every  wayside  shrine  to  pray. 

4.  Hermione.  Fortitude  and  Justice  personified,  with  un- 
wearying affection.  She  is  Penelope,  tried  by  her  husband's 
fault  as  well  as  error. 

5.  Virgilia.  Perfect  type  of  wife  and  mother,  but  without 
definiteness  of  character,  nor  quite  strength  of  intellect  enough 
entirely  to  hold  her  husband's  heart.  Else,  she  had  saved 
him  :  he  would  have  left  Rome  in  his  wrath — but  not  her. 
Therefore,  it  is  his  mother  only  who  bends  him  :  but  she  can- 
not save. 

6.  Imogen.  The  ideal  of  grace  and  gentleness  ;  but  weak  ; 
enduring  too  mildly,  and  forgiving  too  easily.  But  the  piece 
is  rather  a  pantomime  than  play,  and  it  is  impossible  to  judge 
of  the  feelings  of  St.  Columba,  when  she  must  leave  the  stage 
in  half  a  minute  after  mistaking  the  headless  clown  for  head- 
less Arlecchino. 

7.  Desdemona,  Ophelia,  Rosalind.  They  are  under  differ- 
ent conditions  from  all  the  rest,  in  having  entirely  heroic  and 
faultless  persons  to  love.  I  can't  class  them,  therefore, — fate 
is  too  strong,  and  leaves  them  no  free  will. 

8.  Perdita,  Miranda.  Rather  mythic  visions  of  maiden 
beauty  than  mere  girls. 

9.  Viola  and  Juliet.  Love  the  ruling  power  in  the  entire 
character:  wholly  virginal  and  pure,  but  quite  earthly,  and 
recognizing  no  other  life  than  his  own.  Viola  is,  however, 
far  the  noblest.  Juliet  will  die  unless  Romeo  loves  her:  "If 
he  be  wed,  the  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed ; "  but 
Viola  is  ready  to  die  for  the  happiness  of  the  man  who  does 
not  love  her  ;  faithfully  doing  his  messages  to  her  rival,  whom 
she  examines  strictly  for  his  sake.  It  is  not  in  envy  that  she 
says,  "  Excellently  done, — if  God  did  all."  The  key  to  her 
character  is  given  in  the  least  selfish  of  all  lover's  songs,  the 
one  to  which  the  Duke  bids  her  listen  : 


VIOLA. 


193 


"Mark  it,  Cesario, — it  is  old  and  plain, 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids,  that  weave  tJieir  thread  with  bones, 
Do  use  to  chaunt  it." 

(They,  the  unconscious  Fates,  weaving  the  fair  vanity  of  life 
with  death) ;  and  the  burden  of  it  is — 

u  My  part  of  Death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it." 

Therefore  she  says,  in  the  great  first  scene,  "Was  not  this 
love  indeed  ?  "  and  in  the  less  heeded  closing  one,  her  heart 
then  happy  with  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 

u  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear, 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  Fire 
That  severs  day  from  night." 

Or,  at  least,  did  once  sever  day  from  night, — and  perhaps  does 
still  in  Illyria.  Old  England  must  seek  new  images  for  her 
loves  from  gas  and  electric  sparks, — not  to  say  furnace  fire. 

I  am  obliged,  by  press  of  other  work,  to  set  down  these 
notes  in  cruel  shortness  :  and  many  a  reader  may  be  disposed 
to  question  utterly  the  standard  by  which  the  measurement  is 
made.  It  will  not  be  found,  on  reference  to  my  other  books, 
that  they  encourage  young  ladies  to  go  into  convents  ;  or 
undervalue  the  dignity  of  wives  and  mothers.  But,  as  surely 
as  the  sun  does  sever  day  from  night,  it  will  be  found  always 
that  the  noblest  and  loveliest  women  are  dutiful  and  religious 
by  continual  nature  ;  and  their  passions  are  trained  to  obey 
them  ;  like  their  dogs.  Homer,  indeed,  loves  Helen  with  all 
his  heart,  and  restores  her,  after  all  her  naughtiness,  to  the 
queenship  of  her  household  ;  but  he  never  thinks  of  her  as 
Penelope's  equal,  or  Iphigenia's.  Practically,  in  daily  life,  one 
often  sees  married  women  as  good  as  saints ;  but  rarely,  I 
think,  unless  they  have  a  good  deal  to  bear  from  their  hus- 
bands. Sometimes  also,  no  doubt,  the  husbands  have  some 
trouble  in  managing  St.  Cecilia  or  St.  Elizabeth  ;  of  which 
questions  I  shall  be  obliged  to  speak  more  seriously  in  anothei 


1^4  PROSERPINA. 

place :  content,  at  present,  if  English  maids  know  better,  by 
Proserpina's  help,  what  Shakspeare  meant  by  the  dim,  and 
Milton  by  the  glowing,  violet. 


CHAPTER  IL 

PINGUICULA. 

(Written  in  early  June,  1881.) 

1.  On  the  rocks  of  my  little  stream,  where  it  runs,  or  leaps, 
through  the  moorland,  the  common  Pinguicula  is  now  in  its 
perfectest  beauty  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  offshoots  of  the  violet 
tribe  which  I  have  to  place  in  the  minor  collateral  groups  of 
Viola  very  soon,  and  must  not  put  off  looking  at  it  till  next 
year. 

There  are  three  varieties  given  in  Sowerby  :  1.  Vulgaris,  2. 
Greater-flowered,  and  3.  Lusitanica,  white,  for  the  most  part, 
pink,  or  '  carnea,'  sometimes  :  but  the  proper  colour  of  the 
family  is  violet,  and  the  perfect  form  of  the  plant  is  the  c  vul- 
gar' one.  The  larger-flowered  variety  is  feebler  in  colour,  and 
ruder  in  form  :  the  white  Spanish  one,  however,  is  very  lovely, 
as  far  as  I  can  judge  from  Sowerby 's  {old  Sowerby's)  pretty 
drawing. 

The  '  frequent '  one  (I  shall  usually  thus  translate  '  vulgaris'), 
is  not  by  any  means  so  '  frequent '  as  the  Queen  violet,  being 
a  true  wild-country,  and  mostly  Alpine,  plant ;  and  there  is 
also  a  real  '  Pinguicula  Alpina,'  which  we  have  not  in  England, 
who  might  be  the  Regina,  if  the  group  were  large  enough  to 
be  reigned  over  :  but  it  is  better  not  to  affect  Royalty  among 
these  confused,  intermediate,  or  dependent  families. 

2.  In  all  the  varieties  of  Pinguicula,  each  blossom  has  one 
sfcalk  only,  growing  from  the  ground  ;  and  you  may  pull  all 
the  leaves  away  from  the  base  of  it,  and  keep  the  flower  only, 
with  its  bunch  of  short  fibrous  roots,  half  an  inch  long  ;  look- 
ing as  if  bitten  at  the  ends.  Two  flowers,  characteristically, 
— three  and  four  very  often, — spring  from  the  same  root,  in 
places  where  it  grows  luxuriantly ;  and  luxuriant  growth 


P1NGUICULA. 


195 


means  that  clusters  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  stars  may  be 
seen  on  the  surface  of  a  square  yard  of  boggy  ground,  quite 
to  its  mind  ;  but  its  real  glory  is  in  harder  life,  in  the  crannies 
of  well-wetted  rock. 

3.  What  I  have  called  '  stars  '  are  irregular  clusters  of  ap  • 
proximately,  or  tentatively,  five  aloeine  ground  leaves,  of  very 
pale  green, — they  may  be  six  or  seven,  or  more,  but  always 
run  into  a  rudely  pentagonal  arrangement,  essentially  first 
trine,  with  two  succeeding  above.  Taken  as  a  whole  the  plant 
is  really  a  main  link  between  violets  and  Droseras  ;  but  the 
flower  has  much  more  violet  than  Drosera  in  the  make  of  it, — 
spurred,  and  five-petaled*  and  held  down  by  the  top  of  its 
bending  stalk  as  a  violet  is  ;  only  its  upper  two  petals  are  not 
reverted — the  calyx,  of  a  dark  soppy  green,  holding  them 
down,  with  its  three  front  sepals  set  exactly  like  a  strong 

*  When  I  have  the  chance,  and  the  time,  to  submit  the  proofs  of 

*  Proserpina  *  to  friends  who  know  more  of  Botany  than  I,  or  have  kind- 
ness enough  to  ascertain  debateable  things  for  me,  I  mean  in  future  to 
do  so, — using  the  letter  A  to  signify  Amicus,  generally  ;  with  acknowl- 
edgment by  name,  when  it  is  permitted,  of  especial  help  or  correction. 
Note  first  of  this  kind :  I  find  here  on  this  word,  *  five-petaled,'  as  ap- 
plied to  Pinguicula,  a  Qy.  two-lipped?  it  is  monopetalous,  and  mono- 
sepalous,  the  calyx  and  corolla  being  each  all  in  one  piece." 

Yes  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  have  the  observation  inserted.    But  my  term, 

*  five-petaled,'  must  stand.  For  the  question  with  me  is  always  first, 
not  how  the  petals  are  connected,  but  how  many  they  are.  Also  I  have 
accepted  the  term  petal— but  never  the  word  lip — as  applied  to  flowers. 
The  generic  term  4  Labiata) '  is  cancelled  in  *  Proserpina,'  'Vestales' 
being  substituted  ;  and  these  flowers,  when  I  come  to  examine  them, 
are  to  be  described,  not  as  divided  into  two  lips,  but  into  hood,  apron, 
and  side  pockets  Farther,  the  depth  to  which  either  calyx  or  corolla 
is  divided,  and  the  firmness  with  which  the  petals  are  attached  to  the 
torus,  may,  indeed,  often  be  an  important  part  of  the  plant  s  description, 
but  ought  not  to  be  elements  in  its  definition.  Three  petaled  and  three- 
sepaled,  four  petaled  and  four-sepaled,  five-petaled  and  five-sepaled, 
etc.,  etc.,  are  essential — with  me,  primal— elements  of  definition  ;  next, 
whether  resolute  or  stellar  in  their  connection ;  next,  whether  round  or 
pointed,  etc.  Fancy,  for  instance,  the  fatality  to  a  rose  of  pointing  its 
petals,  and  to  a  lily,  of  rounding  them  !  But  how  deep  cut,  or  how 
hard  holding,  is  quite  a  minor  question. 

Farther,  that  all  plants  are  petaled  aud  sepaled,  and  never  mere  cups 
in  saucers,  is  a  great  fact,  not  to  be  dwelt  on  in  a  note 


196 


PROSERPINA. 


trident,  its  two  backward  sepals  clasping  the  spur.  There  are 
often  six  sepals,  four  to  the  front,  but  the  normal  number  is 
five.  Tearing  away  the  calyx,  I  find  the  flower  to  have  been 
held  by  it  as  a  lion  might  hold  his  prey  by  the  loins  if  he 
missed  its  throat  ;  the  blue  petals  being  really  campanuiate, 
and  the  flower  best  described  as  a  dark  bluebell,  seized  and 
crushed  almost  flat  by  its  own  calyx  in  a  rage.  Pulling  away 
now  also  the  upper  petals,  I  find  that  what  are  in  the  violet 
the  lateral  and  well-ordered  fringes,  are  here  thrown  mainly 
on  the  lower  (largest)  petal  near  its  origin,  and  opposite  the 
point  of  the  seizure  by  the  calyx,  spreading  from  this  centre 
over  the  surface  of  the  lower  petals,  partly  like  an  irregular 
shower  of  fine  Venetian  glass  broken,  partly  like  the  wild- 
flung  Medusa-like  embroidery  of  the  white  Lucia.* 

4.  The  calyx  is  of  a  dark  sojypy  green,  I  said  ;  like  that  of 
sugary  preserved  citron  ;  the  root  leaves  are  of  green  just  as 
soppy,  but  pale  and  yellowish,  as  if  they  were  half  decayed  ; 
the  edges  curled  up  and,  as  it  were,  water-shrivelled,  as  one's 
fingers  shrivel  if  kept  too  long  in  water.  And  the  whole  plant 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  a  violet  unjustly  banished  to  a  bog,  and 
obliged  to  live  there — not  for  its  own  sins,  but  for  some 
Emperor  Pansy's,  far  away  in  the  garden, — in  a  partly  hog- 
gish, partly  hoggish  manner,  drenched  and  desolate  ;  and 
with  something  of  demoniac  temper  got  into  its  calyx,  so  that 
it  quarrels  with,  and  bites  the  corolla  ; — something  of  glutton- 
ous and  greasy  habit  got  into  its  leaves ;  a  discomfortable 
sensuality,  even  in  its  desolation.  Perhaps  a  penguin-ish  life 
would  be  truer  of  it  than  a  piggish,  the  nest  of  it  being  in- 
deed on  the  rock,  or  morassy  rock-investiture,  like  a  sea- 
bird's  on  her  rock  ledge. 

5.  I  have  hunted  through  seven  treatises  on  botany,  namely 
Loudon's  Encyclopaedia,  Balfour,  Grindon,  Oliver,  Baxter  of 
Oxford,  Lindley  ('Ladies'  Botany'),  and  Figuier,  without 
being  able  to  find  the  meaning  of  '  Lentibulariacese,'  to  which 

*  Our  i  Luoia  Nivea,'  '  Blanche  Lucy  ; '  in  present  botany,  Bog  bean  ! 
having  no  connection  whatever  with  any  manner  of  bean,  but  only  a 
slight  resemblance  to  bean-leaoes  in  its  own  lower  ones.  Compare  Oh. 
IV.  §  11. 


PINGUICULA. 


197 


tribe  the  Pinguicula  is  said  by  them  all  (except  Figuier)  to 
belong.  It  may  perhaps  be  in  Sowerby  ;  *  but  these  above- 
named  treatises  are  precisely  of  the  kind  with  which  the  or- 
dinary scholar  must  be  content :  and  in  all  of  them  he  has  to 
learn  this  long,  worse  than  useless,  word,  under  which  he  is 
betrayed  into  classing  together  two  orders  naturally  quite 
distinct,  the  Butterworts  and  the  Bladder  worts. 

Whatever  the  name  may  mean — -it  is  bad  Latin.  There  is 
such  a  word  as  Lenticularis — there  is  no  Lentibularis  ;  and 
it  must  positively  trouble  us  no  longer,  f 

The  Butterworts  are  a  perfectly  distinct  group — whether 
small  or  large,  always  recognizable  at  a  glance.  Their  proper 
Latin  name  will  be  Pinguicula,  (plural  Pinguiculae,) — their 

*It  is  not.  (Resolute  negative  from  A.,  unsparing  of  time  for  me  ; 
and  what  a  state  of  things  it  all  signifies  !) 

f  With  the  following  three  notes,  4  A  '  must  "become  a  definitely  and 
gratefully  interpreted  letter.  I  am  indebted  for  the  first,  conclusive  in 
itself,  but  variously  supported  and  confirmed  by  the  two  following,  to 
R.  J.  Mann,  Esq.,  M.D.,  long  ago  a  pupil  of  Dr.  Lindley's,  and  now 
on  the  council  of  Whitelands  College,  Chelsea : — for  the  second,  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  F.L.  S. ,  the  kind  Keeper  of  the  Botanic  Garden  at 
Chelsea;  for  the  third,  which  will  be  farther  on  useful  to  us,  to  Miss 
Kemm,  the  botanical  lecturer  at  Whitelands. 

(1)  There  is  no  explanation  of  Lentibulariacese  in  Lindley's  4  Vege- 
table Kingdom.'  He  was  not  great  in  that  line.  The  term  is,  however, 
taken  from  Lenticula,  the  lentil,  in  allusion  to  the  lentil-shaped  air- 
bladders  of  the  typical  genus  Utricularia. 

The  change  of  the  c  into  b  may  possibly  have  been  made  only  from 
some  euphonic  fancy  of  the  contriver  of  the  name,  who,  I  think,  was 
Rich. 

Rut  I  somewhat  incline  myself  to  think  that  the  tibia,  a  pipe  or  flute, 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  The  tibia  may  possibly  have 
been  diminished  into  a  little  pipe  by  a  stretch  of  licence,  and  have 
become  tibula :  [but  tibulus  is  a  kind  of  pine  tree  in  Pliny] ;  when  Len- 
tibula  would  be  the  lens  or  lentil-shaped  pipe  or  bladder.  I  give  you 
this  only  for  what  it  is  worth.  The  leuticula,  as  a  derivation,  is  reliable 
and  has  authority. 

Lenticulay  a  lentil,  a  freckly  eruption  ;  lenticularis,  lentil-shaped; 
bo  the  nat.  ord.  ought  to  be  (if  this  be  right)  lenticulariacem. 

(2)  Botanic  Gakdens,  Chelsea,  Feb.  14,  1882. 
Lentibularia  is  an  old  generic  name  of  Tournefort's,  which  has  been 

superseded  by  utricularia,  but,  oddly  enough,  has  been  retained  in  thi 


198 


PROSERPINA. 


English,  Bog- Violet,  or,  more  familiarly,  Butterwort;  and 

their  French,  as  at  present,  Grassette. 

The  families  to  be  remembered  will  be  only  five,  namely, 
I  o  Pinguicula  Major,  the  largest  of  the  group.    As  bog 

plants,  Ireland  may  rightly  claim  the  noblest  of  them,  which 

certainly  grow  there  luxuriantly,  and  not  (I  beheve)  with  us. 

Their  colour  is,  however,  more  broken  and  less  characteristic 

than  that  of  the  following  species. 

2.  Pinguicula  Violacea  :  Violet- coloured  Butterwort,  (in- 
stead of  'vulgaris,')  the  common  English  and  Swiss  kind 
above  noticed. 

3.  Pinguicula  Alpina  :  Alpine  Butterwort,  white  and  much 
smaller  than  either  of  the  first  two  families  ;  the  spur  es- 
pecially small,  according  to  D.  453.  Much  rarer,  as  well  as 
smaller,  than  the  other  varieties  in  Southern  Europe.  "  In 
Britain,  known  only  upon  the  moors  of  Roschaugh,  Rosshire, 
where  the  progress  of  cultivation  seems  likely  soon  to  efface 
it.    (Grin  don.) 

4.  Pinguicula  Pallida  :  Pale  Butterwort.  From  Sowerby's 
drawing,  (135,  vol.  iii.,)  it  would  appear  to  be  the  most  deli- 
cate and  lovely  of  all  the  group.  The  leaves,  "  like  those  of 
other  species,  but  rather  more  delicate  and  pellucid,  reticu- 
lated with  red  veins,  and  much  involute  in  the  margin.  Tube 
of  the  corolla,  yellow,  streaked  with  red,  (the  streaks  like 
those  of  a  pansy)  ;  the  petals,  pale  violet.    It  much  resem- 

name  of  the  order  le?Uibularece ;  but  it  probably  comes  from  lenticula, 
which  signifies  the  little  root  bladders,  somewhat  resembling  lentils. 
(3)  *  Manual  of  Scientific  Terms,'  Stormonth,  p.  234. 
Lentibulcwiacece,  neuter,  plural. 

(Lenticula,  the  shape  of  a  lentil ;  from  lens,  a  lentil.)  The  Butter- 
wort family,  an  order  of  plants  so  named  from  the  lenticular  shape 
of  the  air-bladders  on  the  branches  of  utricularia,  one  of  the 
genera.  (But  observe  that  the  Butterworts  have  nothing  of  the 
sort,  any  of  them. — R.) 
Loudon. — ' i  Floaters." 

Lindley. — M  Sometimes  with  whorled  vesicles." 
In  NuttalPs  Standard  (?)  Pronouncing  Dictionary,  it  is  given, — 
LenticularecBy  a  nat.  ord.  of  marsh  plants,  which  thrive  in  water  oi 
marshes. 


PINGUICULA. 


199 


Dies  Villosa,  (our  Minima,  No.  5,)  in  many  particulars,  the 
stem  being  hairy,  and  in  the  lower  part  the  hairs  tipped  with 
a  viscid  fluid,  like  a  sundew.  But  the  Villosa  has  a  slender 
sharp  spur  ;  and  in  this  the  spur  is  blunt  and  thick  at  the 
end."  (Since  the  hairy  stem  is  not  peculiar  to  Villosa,  I  take 
for  her,  instead,  the  epithet  Minima,  which  is  really  definitive.) 

The  pale  one  is  commonly  called  '  Lusitanica,'  but  I  find  no 
direct  notice  of  its  Portuguese  habitation.  Sowerby's  plant 
came  from  Blandford,  Dorsetshire  ;  and  Grindon  says  it  is 
frequent  in  Ireland,  abundant  in  Arran,  and  extends  on  the 
western  side  of  the  British  island  from  Cornwall  to  Cape 
Wrath.  My  epithet,  Pallida,  is  secure,  and  simple,  wherever 
the  plant  is  found. 

5.  Pinguicula  Minima  :  Least  Butterwort ;  in  D.  1021 
called  Villosa,  the  scape  of  it  being  hairy.  I  have  not  yet  got 
rid  of  this  absurd  word  *  scape,'  meaning,  in  bot- 
anist's Latin,  the  flower-stalk  of  a  flower  grow- 
ing out  of  a  cluster  of  leaves  on  the  ground.  It 
is  a  bad  corruption  of  '  sceptre,'  and  especially 
false  and  absurd,  because  a  true  sceptre  is  neces- 
sarily branched.*  In  '  Proserpina,'  when  it  is 
spoken  of  distinctively,  it  is  called  '  virgula '  (see 
vol.  i.,  pp.  112,  115,  116).  The  hairs  on  the 
virgula  are  in  this  instance  so  minute,  that  even 
with  a  lens  I  cannot  see  them  in  the  Danish  plate  : 
of  which  Fig.  3  is  a  rough  translation  into  wrood- 
cut,  to  show  the  grace  and  mien  of  the  little  thing. 
The  trine  leaf  cluster  is  characteristic,  and  the 
folding  up  of  the  leaf  edges.  The  flower,  in  the 
Danish  plate,  full  purple.  Abundant  in  east  of 
Finmark  (Finland  ?),  but  always  growing  in  marsh 
moss,  (Sphagnum  palustre.) 

6.  I  call  it  '  Minima '  only,  as  the  least  of  the 
five  here  named  :  without  putting  forward  any  claim  for  it  to  be 
the  smallest  pinguicula  that  ever  was  or  will  be.    In  such  sense 

*  More  accurately,  shows  the  pruned  roots  of  branches, — npu)ra 
TopLTtjv  iv  '6p€(T(Ti  \i\oiircu.  The  pi-unzng  is  the  mythic  expression  of  tho 
subduing  of  passion  by  rectorial  law. 


3 

200  PROSERPINA, 

only,  the  epithets  minima  or  maxima  are  to  be  understood 
when  used  in  6  Proserpina  ' :  and  so  also,  every  statement  and 
every  principle  is  only  to  be  understood  as  true  or  tenable, 
respecting  the  plants  which  the  writer  has  seen,  and  which 
he  is  sure  that  the  reader  can  easily  see  :  liable  to  modifica- 
tion to  any  extent  by  wider  experience  ;  but  better  first 
learned  securely  within  a  narrow  fence,  and  afterwards 
trained  or  fructified,  along  more  complex  trellises. 

7,  And  indeed  my  readers — at  least,  my  newly  found  read- 
ers— must  note  always  that  the  only  power  which  I  claim  for 
any  of  my  books,  is  that  of  being  right  and  true  as  far  as 
they  reach.  None  of  them  pretend  to  be  Kosmoses  ; — none 
to  be  systems  of  Positivism  or  Negativism,  on  which  the 
earth  is  in  future  to  swing  instead  of  on  its  old  worn-out 
poles  ; — none  of  them  to  be  works  of  genius  ; — none  of  them 
to  be,  more  than  all  true  work  must  be,  pious  ; — and  none  to 
be,  beyond  the  power  of  common  people's  eyes,*  ears,  and 
noses,  £  aesthetic/  They  tell  you  that  the  world  is  so  big,  and 
can  t  be  made  bigger — that  you  yourself  are  also  so  big,  and 
can't  be  made  bigger,  however  you  puff  or  bloat  yourself ; 
but  that,  on  modern  mental  nourishment,  you  may  very 
easily  be  made  smaller.  They  tell  you  that  two  and  two  are 
four,  that  ginger  is  hot  in  the  mouth,  that  roses  are  red,  and 
smuts  black.  Not  themselves  assuming  to  be  pious,  they 
yet  assure  you  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  piety  in  the 
world,  and  that  it  is  wriser  than  impiety  ;  and  not  themselves 
pretending  to  be  works  of  genius,  they  yet  assure  you  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  genius  in  the  world,  and  that  it  is 
meant  for  the  light  and  delight  of  the  world. 

8.  Into  these  repetitions  of  remarks  on  my  work,  often 
made  before,  I  have  been  led  by  an  unlucky  author  who  has 
just  sent  me  his  book,  advising  me  that  it  is  "neither  critical 
nor  sentimental "  (he  had  belter  have  said  in  plain  English 
"without  either  judgment  or  feeling"),  and  in  which  nearly 

*  The  bitter  sorrow  with  which  I  first  recognized  the  extreme  rarity 
of  finely-developed  organic  sight  is  expressed  enough  in  the  lecture 
on  the  Mystery  of  Life,  added  in  the  large  edition  of  1  Sesame  and 
Lilies.' 


P1NGU1CULA. 


201 


the  first  sentence  I  read  is — "  Solomon  with  all  his  acuteness 
was  not  wise  enough  to  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.,  etc."  ('  give  the  Jews 
the  British  constitution,'  I  believe  the  man  means.)  He  is 
not  a  whit  more  conceited  than  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  or  Mr. 
Goldwin  Smith,  or  Professor  Tyndall, — or  any  lively  London 
apprentice  out  on  a  Sunday  ;  but  this  general  superciliousness 
with  respect  to  Solomon,  his  Proverbs,  and  his  politics,  char- 
acteristic of  the  modern  Cockney,  Yankee,  and  Anglicised 
Scot,  is  a  difficult  thing  to  deal  with  for  us  of  the  old  school, 
who  were  well  whipped  when  we  were  young  ;  and  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  occasionally  ascertaining  our  own  levels  as  we 
grew  older,  and  of  recognizing  that,  here  and  there,  some- 
body stood  higher,  and  struck  harder. 

9.  A  difficult  thing  to  deal  with,  I  feel  more  and  more, 
hourly,  even  to  the  point  of  almost  ceasing  to  write  ;  not  only 
every  feeling  I  have,  but,  of  late,  even  every  ivord  I  use,  being 
alike  inconceivable  to  the  insolence,  and  unintelligible  amidst 
the  slang,  of  the  modern  London  writers.  Only  in  the  last 
magazine  I  took  up,  I  found  an  article  by  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith 
on  the  Jews  (of  which  the  gist — as  far  as  it  had  any — was  that 
we  had  better  give  up  reading  the  Bible),  and  in  the  text  of 
which  I  found  the  word  c  tribal '  repeated  about  ten  times  in 
every  page.  Now,  if  '  tribe  '  makes  tribal,'  tube  must  make 
tubal,  cube,  cubal,  and  gibe,  gibal ;  and  I  suppose  we  shall 
next  hear  of  tubal  music,  cubal  minerals,  and  gibal  conversa- 
tion !  And  observe  how  all  this  bad  English  leads  instantly 
to  blunder  in  thought,  prolonged  indefinitely.  The  Jewish 
Tribes  are  not  separate  races,  but  the  descendants  of 
brothers.  The  Eoman  Tribes,  political  divisions  ;  essentially 
Trine  :  and  the  whole  force  of  the  word  Tribune  vanishes,  as 
soon  as  the  ear  is  wrung  into  acceptance  of  his  lazy  innovation 
by  the  modern  writer.  Similarly,  in  the  last  elements  of 
mineralogy  I  took  up,  the  first  order  of  crystals  was  called 
<  tesseral' ;  the  writer  being  much  too  fine  to  call  them  'four-al/ 
and  too  much  bent  on  distinguishing  himself  from  all  previous 
writers  to  call  them  cubic. 

10.  What  simple  schoolchildren,  and  sensible  school- 
masters, are  to  do  in  this  atmosphere  of  Egyptian  marsh, 


202 


PROSERPINA. 


which  rains  fools  upon  them  like  frogs,  I  can  no  more  with 
any  hope  or  patience  conceive  ; — but  this  finally  I  repeat,  con- 
cerning my  own  books,  that  they  are  written  in  honest  Eng- 
lish, of  good  Johnsonian  lineage,  touched  here  and  there  with 
colour  of  a  little  finer  or  Elizabethan  quality :  and  that  the 
things  they  tell  you  are  comprehensible  by  any  moderately 
industrious  and  intelligent  person  ;  and  accurate,  to  a  degree 
which  the  accepted  methods  of  modern  science  cannot,  in  my 
own  particular  fields,  approach. 

11.  Of  which  accuracy,  the  reader  may  observe  for  imme- 
diate instance,  my  extrication  for  him,  from  among  the  uvu- 
larias,  of  these  five  species  of  the  Butterwort ;  which,  being 
all  that  need  be  distinctly  named  and  remembered,  do  need 
to  be  first  carefully  distinguished,  and  then  remembered  in 
their  companionship.  So  alike  are  they,  that  Gerarde  makes 
no  distinction  among  them  ;  but  masses  them  under  the  gen- 
eral type  of  the  frequent  English  one,  described  as  the  second 
kind  of  his  promiscuous  group  of  '  Sanicle/  "  which  Clusius 
calleth  Pinguicula  ;  not  before  his  time  remembered,  hath 
sundry  small  thick  leaves,  fat  and  full  of  juice,  being  broad 
towards  the  root  and  sharp  towards  the  point,  of  a  faint  green 
colour,  and  bitter  in  taste  ;  out  of  the  middest  whereof 
sprouteth  or  shooteth  up  a  naked  slender  stalke  nine  inches 
long,  every  stalke  bearing  one  flower  and  no  more,  sometimes 
white,  and  sometimes  of  a  bluish  purple  colour,  fashioned 
like  unto  the  common  Monkshoods "  (he  means  Larkspurs) 
"  called  Consolida  Regalis,  having  the  like  spur  or  Lark's  heel 
attached  thereto."  Then  after  describing  a  third  kind  of 
Sanicle — (Cortusa  Mathioli,  a  large-leaved  Alpine  Primula,)  he 
goes  on  :  u  These  plants  are  strangers  in  England  ;  their  nat- 
ural country  is  the  alpish  mountains  of  Helvetia.  They  grow 
in  my  garden,  where  they  flourish  exceedingly,  except  Butter- 
woort,  wThich  groweth  in  our  English  squally  wet  grounds," — 
(c  Squally/  I  believe,  here,  from  squalidus,  though  Johnson 
does  not  give  this  sense ;  but  one  of  his  quotations  from  Ben 
Jonson  touches  it  nearly  :  "Take  heed  that  their  new  flowers 
and  sweetness  do  not  as  much  corrupt  as  the  others'  dryness 
and  squalor/' — and  note  farther  that  the  word  £  squall/  in  the 


PWGU1CULA. 


203 


sense  of  gust,  is  not  pure  English,  but  the  Arabic  '  Clmaul ' 
with  an  s  prefixed : — the  English  word,  a  form  of  '  squeal/ 
meaning  a  child's  cry,  from  Gothic  £  Squsela '  and  Icelandic 
'  squilla,'  would  scarcely  Imve  been  made  an  adjective  by  Ger- 
arde), — "  and  will  not  yield  to  any  culturing  or  transplanting : 
it  groweth  especially  in  a  field  called  Cragge  Close,  and  at 
Crosbie  Kavenswaithe,  in  Westmerland  ;  (West-??i<?re-land  you 
observe,  not  mor)  upon  Ingleborough  Fells,  twelve  miles  from 
Lancaster,  and  by  Harwoode  in  the  same  county  near  to 
Blackburn  :  ten  miles  from  Preston,  in  Anderness,  upon  the 
bogs  and  marish  ground,  and  in  the  boggie  meadows  about 
Bishop's-Hatfield,  and  also  in  the  fens  in  the  way  to  Wittles 
Meare  "  (Koger  Wildrake's  Squattlesea  Mere?)  "from  Fendon, 
in  Huntingdonshire."  Where  doubtless  Cromwell  ploughed 
it  up,  in  his  young  days,  pitilessly  ;  and  in  nowise  pausing,  as 
Burns  beside  his  fallen  daisy." 

12.  Finally,  however,  I  believe,  we  may  accept  its  English 
name  of  *  Butter  wort '  as  true  Yorkshire,  the  more  enigmatic 
form  of  *  Pigwiily ■  preserving  the  tradition  of  the  flowers 
once  abounding,  with  softened  Latin  name,  in  Pigwiily  bot- 
tom, close  to  Force  bridge,  by  Kendal.  Gerarde  draws  the 
English  variety  as  <£Pinguicula  sive  Sanicula  Eboracensis, — 
Butterwort,  or  Yorkshire  Sanicle  ;  "  and  he  adds  :  "  The  hus- 
bandmen's wives  of  Yorkshire  do  use  to  anoint  the  dugs  of 
their  kine  with  the  fat  and  oilous  juice  of  the  herb  Butter- 
wort  when  they  be  bitten  of  any  venomous  worm,  or  chapped, 
rifted  and  hurt  by  any  other  means." 

13.  In  Lapland  it  is  put  to  much  more  certain  use  ;  "  it  is 
called  Tatgrass,  and  the  leaves  are  used  by  the  inhabitants  to 
make  their  ( tat  miolk,'  a  preparation  of  milk  in  common  use 
among  them.  Some  fresh  leaves  are  laid  upon  a  filter,  and  milk, 
yet  warm  from  the  reindeer,  is  poured  over  them.  After  pass- 
ing quickly  through  the  filter,  this  is  allowed  to  rest  for  one  or 
two  days  until  it  becomes  ascescent,*  when  it  is  found  not  to 
have  separated  from  the  whey,  and  yet  to  have  attained  much 
greater  tenacity  and  consistence  than  it  would  have  dona 
otherwise.    The  Laplanders  and  Swedes  are  said  to  be  ex* 

*  Lat.  acesco,  to  turn  sour. 


204 


PROSERPINA. 


tremely  fond  of  this  milk,  which  when  once  made,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  renew  the  use  of  the  leaves,  for  we  are  told  that 
a  spoonful  of  it  will  turn  another  quantity  of  warm  milk,  and 
make  it  like  the  first."  *    (Baxter,  vol.  iii.,  No.  209.) 

14.  In  the  same  page,  I  find  quoted  Dr.  Johnston's  obser« 
vation  that  "  when  specimens  of  this  plant  were  somewhat 
rudely  pulled  up,  the  flower-stalk,  previously  erect,  almost 
immediately  began  to  bend  itself  backwards,  and  formed  a 
more  or  less  perfect  segment  of  a  circle  ;  and  so  also,  if  a 
specimen  is  placed  in  the  Botanic  box,  you  will  in  a  short 
time  find  that  the  leaves  have  curled  themselves  backwards, 
and  now  conceal  the  root  by  their  revolution." 

I  have  no  doubt  that  this  elastic  and  wiry  action  is  partly 
connected  with  the  plant's  more  or  less  predatory  or  fly-trap 
character,  in  which  these  curiously  degraded  plants  are  asso- 
ciated with  Drosera.  I  separate  them  therefore  entirely  from 
the  Bladder  worts,  and  hold  them  to  be  a  link  between  the 
Violets  and  the  Droseraceae,  placing  them,  however,  with  the 
Cytherides,  as  a  sub-family,  for  their  beautiful  colour,  and 
because  they  are  indeed  a  grace  and  delight  in  ground  which, 
but  for  them,  would  be  painfully  and  rudely  desolate. 

*  Withering  quotes  this  as  from  Linnaeus,  and  adds  on  authority  of  a 
Mr.  Hawkes,  * f  This  did  not  succeed  when  tried  with  cows'  milk." 
He  also  gives  as  another  name,  Yorkshire  Sanicle  ;  and  says  it  is  called 
earning  grass  in  Scotland.  Linnaeus  says  the  juice  will  curdle  reindeer's 
milk.  The  name  for  rennet  is  earning,  in  Lincolnshire.  Withering 
also  gives  this  note :  4 '  Pinguis,  fat,  from  its  effect  in  congealing 
milk." — (A.)  Withering  of  course  wrong:  the  name  comes,  be  the 
reader  finally  assured,  from  the  fatness  of  the  green  leaf,  quite  peculiar 
among  wild  plants,  and  fastened  down  for  us  in  the  French  word 
'Grassette.'  I  have  found  the  flowers  also  difficult  to  dry,  in  the  be- 
nighted early  times  when  1  used  to  think  a  dried  plant  useful !  See 
closing  paragraphs  of  the  4th  chapter. — B» 


VERONICA. 


205 


chapter  nr. 

VERONICA. 

1.  "The  Corolla  of  the  Foxglove,"  says  Dr.  Lindley,  begin- 
ning bis  account  of  the  tribe  at  page  195  of  the  first  volume  of 
his  'Ladies'  Botany/  "is  a  large  inflated  body  (!),  with  its  throat 
spotted  with  rich  purple,  and  its  border  divided  obliquely  into 
five  very  short  lobes,  of  which  the  two  upper  are  the  smaller  ; 
its  four  stamens  are  of  unequal  length,  and  its  style  is  divided 
into  two  lobes  at  the  upper  end.  A  number  of  long  hairs 
cover  the  ovary,  which  contains  two  cells  and  a  great  quantity 
of  ovules. 

"  This  f  (,sc.  information)  "  will  show  you  what  is  the  usual 
character  of  the  Foxglove  tribe  ;  and  you  will  find  that  all  the 
other  genera  referred  to  it  in  books  agree  with  it  essentially, 
although  they  differ  in  subordinate  points.  It  is  chiefly  (A) 
in  the  form  of  the  corolla,  (B)  in  the  number  of  the  stamens, 
(C)  in  the  consistence  of  the  rind  of  the  fruit,  (D)  in  its  form, 
(E)  in  the  number  of  the  seeds  it  contains,  and  (F)  in  the 
manner  in  which  the  sepals  are  combined,  that  these  differ- 
ences consist." 

2.  The  enumerative  letters  are  of  my  insertion — otherwise 
the  above  sentence  is,  word  for  word,  Dr.  Lindley's, — and  it 
seems  to  me  an  interesting  and  memorable  one  in  the  history 
of  modern  Botanical  science.  For  it  appears  from  the  tenor 
of  it,  that  in  a  scientific  botanist's  mind,  six  particulars,  at 
least,  in  the  character  of  a  plant,  are  merely ■  subordinate 
points, ' — namely, 

1.  (F)  The  combination  of  its  calyx, 

2.  (A)  The  shape  of  its  corolla, 

3.  (B)  The  number  of  its  stamens, 

4.  (D)  The  form  of  its  fruit, 

5.  (C)  The  consistence  of  its  shell. — and 

6.  (E)  The  number  of  seeds  in  it. 

Abstracting,  then,  from  the  primary  description,  all  the  six 
inessential  points,  I  find  the  three  essential  ones  left  are,  that 


206 


PROSERPINA. 


the  style  is  divided  into  two  lobes  at  the  upper  end,  that  a 
number  of  glandular  hairs  cover  the  ovary,  and  that  this  lattei 
contains  two  cells. 

3.  None  of  which  particulars  concern  any  reasonable  mor- 
tal, looking  at  a  Foxglove,  in  the  smallest  degree.  Whether 
hairs  which  he  can't  see  are  glandular  or  bristly, — whether 
the  green  knobs,  which  are  left  when  the  purple  bells  are 
gone,  are  divided  into  two  lobes  or  two  hundred, — and  whether 
the  style  is  split,  like  a  snake's  tongue,  into  two  lobes,  or  like 
a  rogue's,  into  any  number — are  merely  matters  of  vulgar 
curiosity,  which  he  needs  a  microscope  to  discover,  and  will 
lose  a  day  of  his  life  in  discovering.  But  if  any  pretty  young 
Proserpina,  escaped  from  the  Plutonic  durance  of  London, 
and  carried  by  the  tubular  process,  which  replaces  Charon's 
boat,  over  the  Lune  at  Lancaster,  cares  to  come  and  walk  on 
the  Coniston  hills  in  a  summer  morning,  when  the  eyebright 
is  out  on  the  high  fields,  she  may  gather,  with  a  little  help 
from  Brantwood  garden,  a  bouquet  of  the  entire  Foxglove 
tribe  in  flower,  as  it  is  at  present  defined,  and  may  see  what 
they  are  like,  altogether. 

4.  She  shall  gather  :  first,  the  Euphrasy,  which  makes  the 
turf  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  glitter  as  if  with  new-fallen  manna  ; 
then,  from  one  of  the  blue  clusters  on  the  top  of  the  garden 
wall,  the  common  bright  blue  Speedwell ;  and,  from  the  gar- 
den bed  beneath,  a  dark  blue  spire  of  Veronica  spicata ;  then, 
at  the  nearest  oponing  into  the  wood,  a  little  foxglove  in  its 
first  delight  of  shaking  out  its  bells  ;  then — what  next  does 
the  Doctor  say  ? — a  snapdragon  ?  we  must  go  back  into  the 
garden  for  that — here  is  a  goodly  crimson  one,  but  what  the 
little  speedwell  will  think  of  him  for  a  relative  I  can't  think ! 
— a  mullein  ?— that  we  must  do  without  for  the  moment  ;  a 
monkey  flower  ? — that  we  will  do  without,  altogether  ;  a  lady's 
slipper  ? — say  rather  a  goblin's  with  the  gout !  but,  such  as 
the  flower-cobbler  has  made  it,  here  is  one  of  the  kind  that 
people  praise,  out  of  the  greenhouse, — and  yet  a  figwort  we 
must  have,  too  ;  which  I  see  on  referring  to  Loudon,  may  be 
balm-leaved,  hemp-leaved,  tansy-leaved,  nettle-leaved,  wing- 
leaved  heart-leaved,  ear-leaved,  spear-leaved,  or  lyre-leaved. 


VERONICA. 


207 


I  think  I  can  find  a  balm-leaved  one,  though  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  it  when  I've  got  it,  but  it's  called  a  '  Scorodo- 
nia  '  in  Sowerby,  and  something  very  ugly  besides  ; — I'll  put 
a  bit  of  Teucrium  Scorodonia  in,  to  finish :  and  now — how 
will  my  young  Proserpina  arrange  her  bouquet,  and  rank  the 
family  relations  to  their  contentment  ? 

5.  She  has  only  one  kind  of  flowers  in  her  hand,  as  botani- 
cal classification  stands  at  present ;  and  whether  the  system 
be  more  rational,  or  in  any  human  sense  more  scientific,  which 
puts  calceolaria  and  speedwell  together, — and  foxglove  and 
euphrasy  ;  and  runs  them  on  one  side  into  the  mints,  and  on 
the  other  into  the  nightshades ; — naming  them,  meanwhile, 
some  from  diseases,  some  from  vermin,  some  from  blockheads, 
and  the  rest  anyhow  : — or  the  method  I  am  pleading  for, 
which  teaches  us,  watchful  of  their  seasonable  return  and 
chosen  abiding  places,  to  associate  in  our  memory  the  flowers 
which  truly  resemble,  or  fondly  companion,  or,  in  time  kept 
by  the  signs  of  Heaven,  succeed,  each  other  ;  and  to  name 
them  in  some  historical  connection  with  the  loveliest  fancies 
and  most  helpful  faiths  of  the  ancestral  world — Proserpina  be 
judge  ;  with  every  maid  that  sets  flowers  on  brow  or  breast — 
from  Thule  to  Sicily. 

6.  We  will  unbind  our  bouquet,  then,  and  putting  all  the 
rest  of  its  flowers  aside,  examine  the  range  and  nature  of  the 
little  blue  cluster  only. 

And  first — we  have  to  note  of  it,  that  the  plan  of  the  blos- 
som in  all  the  kinds  is  the  same ;  an  irregular  quatrefoil :  and 
irregular  quatrefoils  are  of  extreme  rarity  in  flower  form.  I 
don't  myself  know  one,  except  the  Veronica.  The  cruciform 
vegetables — the  heaths,  the  olives,  the  lilacs,  the  little  Tor- 
mentillas,  and  the  poppies,  are  all  perfectly  symmetrical. 
Two  of  the  petals,  indeed,  as  a  rule,  are  different  from  the 
other  two,  except  in  the  heaths ;  and  thus  a  distinctly  crosslet 
form  obtained,  but  always  an  equally  balanced  one  :  while  in 
the  Veronica,  as  in  the  Violet,  the  blossom  always  refers  itself 
to  a  supposed  place  on  the  stalk  with  respect  to  the  ground  ■ 
and  the  upper  petal  is  always  the  largest. 

The  supposed  place  is  often  very  suppositious  indeed- -for 


PROSERPINA. 


clusters  of  the  common  veronicas,  if  luxuriant,  throw  their 
blossoms  about  anywhere.  But  the  idea  of  an  upper  and 
lower  petal  is  always  kept  in  the  flower's  little  mind. 

7.  In  the  second  place,  it  is  a  quite  open  and  flat  quatrefoil 
—so  separating  itself  from  the  belled  quadrature  of  the  heath, 
and  the  tubed  and  primrose-like  quadrature  of  the  crueiferse ; 
and,  both  as  a  quatrefoil,  and  as  an  open  one,  it  is  separated 
from-  the  foxgloves  and  snapdragons,  which  are  neither  qua- 
trefoils,  nor  open  ;  but  are  cinqfoils  shut  up ! 

8.  In  the  third  place,  open  and  flat  though  the  flower  be,  it 
is  monopetalous ;  all  the  four  arms  of  the  cross  strictly  be- 
coming one  in  the  centre ;  so  that,  though  the  blue  foils  look 
no  less  sharply  separate  than  those  of  a  buttercup  or  a  cistus  ; 
and  are  so  delicate  that  one  expects  them  to  fall  from  their 
stalk  if  we  breathe  too  near, — do  but  lay  hold  of  one, — and, 
at  the  touch,  the  entire  blossom  is  lifted  from  its  stalk,  and 
may  be  laid,  in  perfect  shape,  on  our  paper  before  us,  as  easily 
as  if  it  had  been  a  nicely  made-up  blue  bonnet,  lifted  off  its 
stand  by  the  milliner. 

I  pause  here,  to  consider  a  little  ;  because  I  find  myself 
mixing  up  two  characteristics  which  have  nothing  necessary 
in  their  relation  ; — namely,  the  unity  of  the  blossom,  and  its 
coming  easily  off  the  stalk.  The  separate  petals  of  the  cistus 
and  cherry  fall  as  easily  as  the  foxglove  drops  its  bells  ; — on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  monopetalous  things  that  don't  drop>, 
but  hold  on  like  the  convoluta,*  and  make  the  rest  of  the  tree 
sad  for  their  dying.  I  do  not  see  my  way  to  any  systematic 
noting  of  decadent  or  persistent  corolla ;  but,  in  passing,  we 
may  thank  the  veronica  for  never  allowing  us  to  see  how  it 
fades,  f  and  being  always  cheerful  and  lovely,  while  it  is  with  us. 

*  I  find  much  more  difficulty,  myself,  being  old,  in  using  my  altered 
names  for  species  than  my  young  scholars  will.  In  watching  the  bells 
of  the  purple  bindweed  fade  at  evening,  let  them  learn  the  fourth  verse 
©f  the  prayer  of  Hezekiah,  as  it  is  in  the  Vulgate — <c  Generatio  mea 
ablata  est,  et  convoluta  est  a  me,  sicut  tabernaculum  pastoris," — and 
they  will  not  forget  the  name  of  the  fast-fading— ever  renewed — "  belle 
cVun  jour." 

f  "It  is  Miss  Cobbe,  I  think,  who  says,  i  all  wild  flowers  know  how 
to  die  gracefully. '  "—A, 


VERONICA. 


209 


9.  And  for  a  farther  specialty,  I  think  we  should  take  note 
of  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  its  floral  blue,  not  sprinkling 
itself  with  unwholesome  sugar  like  a  larkspur,  nor  varying 
into  coppery  or  turquoise-like  hue  as  the  forget-me-not ;  but 
keeping  itself  as  modest  as  a  blue  print,  pale,  in  the  most 
frequent  kinds  ;  but  pure  exceedingly  ;  and  rejoicing  in  fel- 
lowship with  the  grey  of  its  native  rocks.  The  palest  of  all  I 
think  it  will  be  well  to  remember  as  Veronica  Clara,  the 
"Poor  Clare"  of  Veronicas.  I  find  this  note  on  it  in  my 
diary, — 

'  The  flower  of  an  exquisite  grey- white,  like  lichen,  or  shaded 
hoar-frost,  or  dead  silver  ;  making  the  long-weathered  stones 
it  grew  upon  perfect  with  a  finished  modesty  of  paleness,  as 
if  the  flower  could  be  blue,  and  would  not,  for  their  sake. 
Laying  its  fine  small  leaves  along  in  embroidery,  like  Anagal- 
lis  tenella, — indescribable  in  the  tender  feebleness  of  it — after- 
wards as  it  grew,  dropping  the  little  blossoms  from  the  base 
of  the  spire,  before  the  buds  at  the  top  had  blown.  Gath- 
ered, it  v/as  happy  beside  me,  with  a  little  water  under  a 
stone,  and  put  out  one  pale  blossom  after  another,  day  by 
day.' 

10.  Lastly,  and  for  a  high  worthiness,  in  my  estimate,  note 
that  it  is  wild,  of  the  wildest,  and  proud  in  pure  descent  of 
race  ;  submitting  itself  to  no  follies  of  the  cur-breeding  florist. 
Its  species,  though  many  resembling  each  other,  are  severally 
constant  in  aspect,  and  easily  recognizable  ;  and  I  have  never 
seen  it  provoked  to  glare  into  any  gigantic  impudence  at  a 
flower  show.  Fortunately,  perhaps,  it  is  scentless,  and  so  de- 
spised. 

11.  Before  I  attempt  arranging  its  families,  we  must  note 
that  while  the  corolla  itself  is  one  of  the  most  constant  in 
form,  and  so  distinct  from  all  other  blossoms  that  it  may  be 
always  known  at  a  glance  ;  the  leaves  and  habit  of  growth  vary 
so  greatly  in  families  of  different  climates,  and  those  born  for 
special  situations,  moist  or  dry,  and  the  like,  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  characterize  Veronic,  or  Veronique,  vegetation 
in  general  terms.  One  can  say,  comfortably,  of  a  strawberry, 
that  it  is  a  creeper,  without  expecting  at  the  next  moment  to 

14 


210 


PROSERPINA. 


see  a  steeple  of  strawberry  blossoms  rise  to  contradict  us  ;— « 
we  can  venture  to  say  of  a  foxglove  that  it  grows  in  a  spire, 
without  any  danger  of  finding,  farther  on,  a  carpet  of  prostrate 
and  entangling  digitalis  ;  and  we  may  pronounce  of  a  butter- 
cup that  it  grows  mostly  in  meadows  without  fear  of  finding 
ourselves  at  the  edge  of  the  next  thicket,  under  the  shadow  of 
a  buttercup-bush  growing  into  valuable  timber.  But  the 
Veronica  reclines  with  the  lowly, *  upon  occasion,  and  aspires, 
with  the  proud  ;  is  here  the  pleased  companion  of  the  ground- 
ivies,  and  there  the  unrebuked  rival  of  the  larkspurs  :  on  the 
rocks  of  Coniston  it  effaces  itself  almost  into  the  film  of  a 
lichen  ;  it  pierces  the  snows  of  Iceland  with  the  gentian  :  and 
in  the  Falkland  Islands  is  a  white-blossomed  evergreen,  of 
which  botanists  are  in  dispute  whether  it  be  Veronica  or  Olive. 

12.  Of  these  many  and  various  forms,  I  find  the  manners 
and  customs  alike  inconstant ;  and  this  of  especially  singular 
in  them — that  the  Alpine  and  northern  species  bloom  hardily 
in  contest  with  the  retiring  snows,  while  with  us  they  wait  till 
the  spring  is  past,  and  offer  themselves  to  us  only  in  consola- 
tion for  the  vanished  violet  and  primrose.  As  we  farther  ex- 
amine the  ways  of  plants,  I  suppose  we  shall  find  some  that 
determine  upon  a  fixed  season,  and  will  bloom  methodically 
in  June  or  July,  whether  in  Abyssinia  or  Greenland ;  and 
others,  like  the  violet  and  crocus,  which  are  flowers  of  the 
spring,  at  whatever  time  of  the  favouring  or  frowning  year  the 
spring  returns  to  their  country.  I  suppose  also  that  botan- 
ists and  gardeners  know  all  these  matters  thoroughly :  but 
they  don't  put  them  into  their  books,  and  the  clear  notions  of 
them  only  come  to  me  now,  as  I  think  and  watch. 

13.  Broadly,  however,  the  families  of  the  Veronica  fall  into 
three  main  divisions, — those  which  have  round  leaves  lobed 
at  the  edge,  like  ground  ivy ;  those  which  have  small  thyme- 
like leaves  ;  and  those  which  have  long  leaves  like  a  foxglove's, 
only  smaller — never  more  than  two  or  two  and  a  half  inches 
long.  I  therefore  take  them  in  these  connections,  though 
without  any  bar  between  the  groups  ;  only  separating  the  Be- 

*See  distinction  between  recumbent  and  rampant  herbs,  below,  under 
*  Veronica  Agrestis,'  p.  212. 


VERONICA. 


211 


gina  from  the  other  thyme-leaved  ones,  to  give  her  due  pre- 
cedence ;  and  the  rest  will  then  arrange  themselves  into 
twenty  families,  easily  distinguishable  and  memorable. 

I  have  chosen  for  Veronica  Eegina,  the  brave  Icelandic  one, 
which  pierces  the  snow  in  first  spring,  with  lovely  small  shoots 
of  perfectly  set  leaves,  no  larger  than  a  grain  of  wheat ;  the 


Fio.  4. 


flowers  in  a  lifted  cluster  of  five  or  six  together,  not  crowded, 
yet  not  loose  ;  large,  for  veronica — about  the  size  of  a  silver 
penny,  or  say  half  an  inch  across — deep  blue,  with  ruby  centre. 
My  woodcut,  Fig.  4,  is  outlined  *  from  the  beautiful  en- 

*  '  Abstracted  '  rather,  I  should  have  said,  and  with  perfect  skill,  by 
Mr.  Colling  wood  (the  joint  translator  of  Xenophon's  Economics  for  the 
'Bibliotheca  Pastorum1).   So  also  the  next  following  cut,  Fig.  5. 


212 


PROSERPINA. 


graving  D.  342,*— there  called  '  fruticulosa,'  from  the  number 
of  the  young  shoots. 

14.  Beneath  the  Regina,  come  the  twenty  easily  distin- 
guished families,  namely  : — 

f .  Chamaedrys.  '  Ground-oak.'  I  cannot  tell  why  so 
called — its  small  and  rounded  leaves  having  nothing  like  oak 
leaves  about  them,  except  the  serration,  which  is  common  to 
half,  at  least,  of  all  leaves  that  grow.  But  the  idea  is  all  over 
Europe,  apparently.  Fr.  '  petit  chene  : '  German  and  English 
'  Germander,'  a  merely  corrupt  form  of  Chamaedrys. 

The  representative  English  veronica  "Germander  Speed- 
well " — very  prettily  drawn  in  S.  986  ;  too  tall  and  weedlike 
in  D.  448. 

2.  Hederifolia.  Ivy-leaved  :  but  more  property,  cymbalaria- 
leaved.  It  is  the  English  field  representative,  though  blue- 
flowered,  of  the  Byzantine  white  veronica,  V.  Cymbalaria, 
very  beautifully  drawn  in  G.  9.    Hederifolia  well  in  D.  428. 

3.  Agrestis.  Fr.  'Rustique.'  We  ought  however  clearly 
to  understand  whether  '  agrestis,'  used  by  English  botanists, 
is  meant  to  imply  a  literally  field  flower,  or  only  a  '  rustic ' 
one,  which  might  as  properly  grow  in  a  wood.  I  shall  always 
myself  use  £  agrestis '  in  the  literal  sense,  and  '  rustica '  for 
'rustique.'  I  see  no  reason,  in  the  present  case,  for  separat- 
ing the  Polite  from  the  Rustic  flower :  the  agrestis,  D.  449 

*  Of  the  references,  henceforward  necessary  to  the  books  I  have  used 
as  authorities,  the  reader  will  please  note  the  following  abbreviations : — 

C.  Curtis's  Magazine  of  Botany. 

D.  Flora  Danica. 

F.  Figuier. 

G.  Sibthorpe's  Flora  Graeca. 

L.  Linnaeus.    Systema  Naturae. 

L.  S.  Linnaeus's  Flora  Suecica.  But  till  we  are  quite  used  to  the  other 
letters,  I  print  this  reference  in  words. 

L.  N.  William  Curtis's  Flora  Londinensis.  Of  the  exquisite  plates 
engraved  for  this  book  by  James  Sowerby,  note  is  taken  in  the 
close  of  next  chapter. 

O.  Sowerby' s  English  Wild  Flowers;  the  old  edition  in  thirty-two 
thin  volumes  —far  the  best. 

S.  Sowerby^  English  Wild  Flowers ;  the  modern  edition  in  ten  vol- 
umes. 


VERONICA. 


213 


and  S.  971,  seems  to  me  not  more  meekly  recumbent,  nor 
more  frankly  cultureless,  than  the  so-called  Polita,  S.  972  : 
there  seems  also  no  French  acknowledgment  of  its  polite- 
ness, and  the  Greek  family,  G.  8,  seem  the  rudest  and  wildest 
of  all. 

Quite  a  field  flower  it  is,  I  believe,  lying  always  low  on  the 
ground,  recumbent,  but  not  creeping.  Note  this  difference  : 
no  fastening  roots  are  thrown  out  by  the  reposing  stems  of 
this  Veronica  ;  a  creeping  or  accurately  '  rampant '  plant  roots 
itself  in  advancing.    Conf.  Nos.  5,  6. 

4.  Arvensis.  We  have  yet  to  note  a  still  finer  distinction 
in  epithet.  *  Agrestis  '  will  properly  mean  a  flower  of  the  open 
ground — yet  not  caring  whether  the  piece  of  earth  be  culti- 
vated or  not,  so  long  as  it  is  under  clear  sky.  But  when  agri- 
culture has  turned  the  unfruitful  acres  into  '  arva  beata/ — if 
then  the  plant  thrust  itself  between  the  furrows  of  the  plough, 
it  is  properly  called  '  Arvensis/ 

I  don't  quite  see  my  way  to  the  same  distinction  in  English, 
— perhaps  I  may  get  into  the  habit,  as  time  goes  on,  of  calling 
the  Arvenses  consistently  furrow-flowers,  and  the  Agrestes 
field-flowers.  Furrow-veronica  is  a  tiresomely  long  name,  but 
must  do  for  the  present,  as  the  best  interpretation  of  its  Latin 
character,  "  vulgatissima  in  cultis  et  arvis,"  D.  515.  The 
blossom  itself  is  exquisitely  delicate  ;  and  we  may  be  thankful, 
both  here  and  in  Denmark,  for  such  a  lovely  4  vulgate.' 

5.  Montana.  D.  1201.  The  first  really  creeping  plant  we 
have  had  to  notice.  It  throws  out  roots  from  the  recumbent 
stems.  Otherwise  like  agrestis,  it  has  leaves  like  ground-ivy. 
Called  a  wTood  species  in  the  text  of  I). 

6-  Persica.  An  eastern  form,  but  now  perfectly  natural- 
ized here — D.  1982  ;  S.  973.  The  flowers  very  large,  and  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  but  only  one  springing  from  each  leaf-axil. 

Leaves  and  stem  like  Montana  ;  and  also  creeping  with  new 
roots  at  intervals. 

7  b  Triphylla  (not  triphyllos, — see  Flora  Suecica,  22). 
Meaning  trifid-leaved  ;  but  the  leaf  is  really  divided  into 
five  lobes,  not  three — see  S.  974,  and  G.  10.  The  palmate 
form  of  the  leaf  seems  a  mere  caprice,  and  indicates  no  transi- 


214 


PROSERPINA. 


tional  form  in  the  plant :  it  may  be  accepted  as  only  a  mo- 
mentary compliment  of  mimicry  to  the  geraniums.  The 
Siberian  variety,  'multifida,'  C.  1679,  divides  itself  almost  as 
the  submerged  leaves  of  the  water-ranunculus. 

The  triphylla  itself  is  widely  diffused,  growing  alike  on  the 
sandy  fields  of  Kent,  and  of  Troy.  In  D.  627  is  given  an  ex- 
tremely delicate  and  minute  northern  type,  the  flowers  springing 
as  in  Persica,  one  from  each  leaf-axil,  and  at  distant  intervals. 

8.  Officinalis.  D.  248,  S.  294.  Fr.  <  Veronique  officinale' ; 
(Germ.  Gebrauchlicher  Ehrenpreis,)  our  commonest  English 
and  Welsh  speedwell ;  richest  in  cluster  and  frankest  in  road- 
side growth,  whether  on  bank  or  rock  ;  but  assuredly  liking 
either  a  bank  or  a  rock,  and  the  top  of  a  wall  better  than  the 
shelter  cf  one.  Uncountable  'myriads,'  I  am  tempted  to 
write,  but,  cautiously  and  literally,  '  hundred '  of  blossoms — - 
if  one  could  count,— ranging  certainly  towards  the  thousand 
in  some  groups,  all  bright  at  once,  make  our  Westmoreland 
lanes  look  as  if  they  were  decked  for  weddings,  in  early  sum- 
mer. In  the  Danish  Flora  it  is  drawn  small  and  poor  ;  its 
southern  type  being  the  true  one  :  but  it  is  difficult  to  explain 
the  difference  between  the  look  of  a  flower  which  really  suffers, 
as  in  this  instance,  by  a  colder  climate,  and  becomes  mean 
and  weak,  as  well  as  dwarfed  ;  and  one  which  is  braced  and 
brightened  by  the  cold,  though  diminished,  as  if  under  the 
charge  and  charm  of  an  affectionate  fairy,  and  becomes  a  joy- 
fully patriotic  inheritor  of  wilder  scenes  and  skies.  Medicinal, 
to  soul  and  body  alike,  this  gracious  and  domestic  flower ; 
though  astringent  and  bitter  in  the  juice.  It  is  the  Welsh 
deeply  honoured  '  Fluellen.' — See  final  note  on  the  myth  of 
Veronica,  see  §  18. 

9.  Thymifolia.  Thyme-leaved,  G.  6.  Of  course  the  lon- 
gest possible  word — serpyllifolia — is  used  in  S.  978.  It  is  a 
high  mountain  plant,  growing  on  the  top  of  Crete  as  the  snow 
retires  ;  and  the  Veronica  minor  of  Gerarde  ;  "  the  roote  is 
small  and  threddie,  taking  hold  of  the  upper  surface  of  the 
earth,  where  it  spreadeth."  So  also  it  is  drawn  as  a  creeper  in 
F.  492,  where  the  flower  appears  to  be  oppressed  and  con- 
cealed by  the  leafage. 


VERONICA. 


215 


I  ©«.  Minuta,  called  '  hirsuta '  in  S.  985  :  an  ugly  character- 
istic to  name  the  lovely  little  thing  by.  The  distinct  blue 
lines  in  the  petals  might  perhaps  justify  '  picta  '  or  '  lineata/ 
rather  than  an  epithet  of  size  ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  Gerarde's 
Minima,  and  so  leave  it,  more  safely  named  as  '  minute '  than 
'  least/  For  I  think  the  next  variety 
may  dispute  the  leastness. 

I  I .  Verna.  D.  252.  Mountains, 
in  dry  places  in  early  spring.  Up- 
right, and  confused  in  the  leafage, 
which  is  sharp-pointed  and  close  set, 
much  hiding  the  blossom,  but  of  ex- 
treme elegance,  fit  for  a  sacred  fore- 
ground ;  as  any  gentle  student  will 
feel,  who  copies  this  outline  from  the 
Flora  Danica,  Fig.  5. 

12.  Peregrina.  Another  extreme- 
ly small  variety,  nearly  pink  in  colour, 
passing  into  bluish  lilac  and  white. 
American  ;  but  called,  I  do  not  see 
why,  'Veronique  voyageuse,'  by  the 
French  and  Fremder  Ehrenpreis  in 
Germany.  Given  as  a  frequent  Eng- 
lish weed  in  S.  927. 

1 3-  Alpina.  Veronique  des  Alpes. 
Gebirgs  Ehrenpreis.  Still  minute  ; 
its  scarcely  distinct  flowers  form- 
ing a  close  head  among  the  leaves  ; 
round-pe tailed  in  D.  16,  but  sharp, 
as  usual,  in  S.  980.  On  the  Norway 
Alps  in  grassy  places ;  and  in  Scotland 
by  the  side  of  mountain  rills ;  but  rare. 
On  Ben  Nevis  and  Lachin  y  Gair  (S  ) 

I  4.  Scutellata.  From  the  shield-like  shape  of  its  seed-ves 
sels.  Veronique  a  Ecusson  ;  Schildfruchtiger  Ehrenpreis. 
But  the  seed-vessels  are  more  heart  shape  than  shield.  March 
Speedwell.  S.  988,  D.  209, — in  the  one  pink,  in  the  other 
blue  ;  but  again  in  D.  1561,  pink. 


Fig.  5. 


216 


PROSERPINA. 


"  In  flooded  meadows,  common."  (D.)  A  spoiled  and  scat- 
tered form  ;  the  seeds  too  conspicuous,  but  the  flowers  very 
delicate,  hence  '  Gratiola  minima '  in  Gesner.  The  confused 
ramification  of  the  clusters  worth  noting,  in  relation  to  the 
equally  straggling  fibres  of  root. 

1 5.  Spicata.  S.  982  :  very  prettily  done,  representing  the 
inside  of  the  flower  as  deep  blue,  the  outside  pale.  The  top 
of  the  spire,  all  calices,  the  calyx  being  indeed,  through  all 
the  veronicas,  an  important  and  persistent  member. 

The  tendency  to  arrange  itself  in  spikes  is  to  be  noted  as  a 
degradation  of  the  veronic  character  ;  connecting  it  on  one 
side  with  the  snapdragons,  on  the  other  with  the  ophryds. 
In  Veronica  Ophrydea,  (C.  2210,)  this  resemblance  to  the 
contorted  tribe  is  carried  so  far  that  "  the  corolla  of  the  ve- 
ronica becomes  irregular,  the  tube  gibbous,  the  faux  (throat) 
hairy,  and  three  of  the  lacinise  (lobes  of  petals)  variously 
twisted."  The  spire  of  blossom,  violet-coloured,  is  then  close 
set,  and  exactly  resembles  an  ophryd,  except  in  being  sharper 
at  the  top.  The  engraved  outline  of  the  blossom  is  good,  and 
very  curious. 

I  6.  Gentianoides.  This  is  the  most  directly  and  curiously 
imitative  among  the — shall  we  call  them — '  histrionic  '  types 
of  Veronica.  It  grows  exactly  like  a  clustered  upright  gen- 
tian ;  has  the  same  kind  of  leaves  at  its  root,  and  springs 
with  the  same  bright  vitality  among  the  retiring  snows  of  the 
Bithynian  Olympus.  (G.  5.)  If,  however,  the  Caucasian 
flower,  C.  1002,  be  the  same,  it  has  lost  its  perfect  grace  in 
luxuriance,  growing  as  large  as  an  asphodel,  and  with  root- 
leaves  half  a  foot  long. 

The  petals  are  much  veined  ;  and  this,  of  all  veronicas,  has 
the  lower  petal  smallest  in  proportion  to  the  three  above — 
"  triplo  aut  quadruplo  minori."  (G.) 

I  7.  Stagnarum.  Marsh- Veronica.  The  last  four  families 
we  have  been  examining  vary  from  the  typical  Veronicas  not 
only  in  their  lance-shaped  clusters,  but  in  their  lengthened, 
and  often  every  way  much  enlarged  leaves  also  :  and  the  two 
which  we  now  will  take  in  association,  17  and  18,  carry  the 
change  in  aspect  farthest  of  any,  being  both  of  them  true 


VERONICA. 


217 


water-plants,  with  strong  stems  and  thick  leaves.  The  present 
name  of  my  Veronica  Stagnarum  is  however  V.  anagallis,  a 
mere  insult  to  the  little  water  primula,  which  one  plant  of  the 
Veronica  would  make  fifty  of.  This  is  a  rank  water-weed, 
having  confused  bunches  of  blossom  and  seed,  like  unripe 
currents,  dangling  from  the  leaf-axils.  So  that  where  the 
little  triphylla,  (No.  7,  above,)  has  only  one  blossom,  daintily 
set,  and  well  seen,  this  has  a  litter  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  on 
a  long  stalk,  of  which  only  three  or  four  are  well  out  as  flow- 
ers, and  the  rest  are  mere  knobs  of  bud  or  seed.  The  stalk 
is  thick  (half  an  inch  round  at  the  bottom),  the  leaves  long 
and  misshapen.  "Frequens  in  fossis,"  D.  203.  French, 
Mouron  d'Eau,  but  I  don't  know  the  root  or  exact  meaning 
of  Mouron. 

An  ugly  Australian  species,  'labiata,'  C.  1660,  has  leaves 
two  inches  long,  of  the  shape  of  an  aloe's,  and  partly  aloeine 
in  texture,  "  sawed  with  unequal,  fleshy,  pointed  teeth." 

1 8.  Fontium.  Brook- Veronica.  Brook-Lime,  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  '  lime '  from  Latin  limus,  meaning  the  soft  mud  of 
streams.  German  4  Bach-bunge  '  (Brook-purse  ?)  ridiculously 
changed  by  the  botanists  into  *  Beccabunga,'  for  a  Latin  name  ! 
Very  beautiful  in  its  crowded  green  leaves  as  a  stream-com- 
panion ;  rich  and  bright  more  than  watercress.  See  notice  of 
it  at  Matlock,  in  1  Modern  Painters/  vol.  v. 

1 9  ■  Clara.  Veronique  des  rochers.  Saxatilis,  I  suppose, 
in  Sowerby,  but  am  not  sure  of  having  identified  that  with 
my  own  favourite,  for  which  I  therefore  keep  the  name  '  Clara/ 
(see  above  §  9)  ;  and  the  other  rock  variety,  if  indeed  another, 
must  be  remembered,  together  with  it. 

20.  Glauca.  G.  7.  And  this  at  all  events,  with  the  Clara, 
is  to  be  remembered  as  closing  the  series  of  twenty  families, 
acknowledged  by  Proserpina.  It  is  a  beautiful  low-growing 
ivy-leaved  type,  with  flowers  of  subdued  lilac  blue.  On 
Mount  Hymettus :  no  other  locality  given  in  the  Flora  Graeca. 

15.  I  am  sorry,  and  shall  always  be  so,  when  the  varieties 
of  any  flower  which  I  have  to  commend  to  the  student's  mem- 
ory, exceed  ten  or  twelve  in  number ;  but  I  am  oontent  to 
gratify  his  pride  with  lengthier  task,  if  indeed  he  will  resign 


218 


PROSERPINA, 


himself  to  the  imperative  close  of  the  more  inclusive  catalogue, 
and  be  content  to  know  the  twelve,  or  sixteen,  or  twenty,  ac- 
knowledged families,  thoroughly  ;  and  only  in  their  illustra- 
tion to  think  of  rarer  forms.  The  object  of  '  Proserpina/  is 
to  make  him  happily  cognizant  of  the  common  aspect  of  Greek 
and  English  flowers  ;  under  the  term  6  English,'  comprehend- 
ing the  Saxon,  Celtic,  Norman,  and  Danish  Floras.  Of  the 
evergreen  shrub  alluded  to  in  §  11  above,  the  Veronica  De- 
cussata  of  the  Pacific,  which  is  "a  bushy  evergreen,  with 
beautifully  set  cross-leaves,  and  white  blossoms  scented  like 
olea  fragrans,"  I  should  like  him  only  to  read  with  much  sur- 
prise, and  some  incredulity,  in  Pinker  ton's  or  other  entertain- 
ing travellers'  voyages. 

16.  And  of  the  families  given,  he  is  to  note  for  the  com- 
mon simple  characteristic,  that  they  are  quatrefoils  referred  to 
a  more  or  less  elevated  position  on  a  central  stem,  and  having, 
in  that  relation,  the  lowermost  petal  diminished,  contrary  to 
the  almost  universal  habit  of  other  flowers  to  develop  in  such 
a  position  the  lower  petal  chiefly,  that  it  may  have  its  full 
share  of  light.  You  will  find  nothing  but  blunder  and  em- 
barrassment result  from  any  endeavour  to  enter  into  further 
particulars,  such  as  "  the  relation  of  the  dissepiment  with  re- 
spect to  the  valves  of  the  capsule,"  etc.,  etc.,  since  "  in  the 
various  species  of  Veronica  almost  every  kind  of  dehiscence 
may  be  observed  "  (C.  under  V.  perfoliata,  1936,  an  Australian 
species).  Sibthorpe  gives  the  entire  definition  of  Veronica 
with  only  one  epithet  added  to  mine,  "  Corolla  quadrifida, 
rotata,  lacinia  infima  angustiore,"  but  I  do  not  know  what 
'  rotata '  here  means,  as  there  is  no  appearance  of  revolved 
action  in  the  petals,  so  far  as  I  can  see. 

17.  Of  the  mythic  or  poetic  significance  of  the  veronica, 
there  is  less  to  be  said  than  of  its  natural  beauty.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  discover  with  what  feeling,  or  at  what  time,  its 
sacred  name  was  originally  given ;  and  the  legend  of  S.  Veron- 
ica herself  is,  in  the  substance  of  it,  irrational,  and  therefore 
incredible.  The  meaning  of  the  term  '  rational,'  as  applied  to 
a  legend  or  miracle,  is,  that  there  has  been  an  intelligible  need 
for  the  permission  of  the  miracle  at  the  time  when  it  is  re- 


VERONICA, 


219 


corded  ;  and  that  the  nature  and  manner  of  the  act  itself 
should  be  comprehensible  in  the  scope.  There  was  thus 
quite  simple  need  for  Christ  to  feed  the  multitudes,  and  to 
appear  to  S.  Paul ;  but  no  need,  so  far  as  human  intelligence 
can  reach,  for  the  reflection  of  His  features  upon  a  piece  of 
linen  which  could  be  seen  by  not  one  in  a  million  of  the  dis- 
ciples to  whom  He  might  more  easily,  at  any  time,  manifest 
Himself  personally  and  perfectly.  Nor,  I  believe,  has  the 
story  of  S.  Veronica  ever  been  asserted  to  be  other  than  sym- 
bolic by  the  sincere  teachers  of  the  Church  ;  and,  even  so  far 
as  in  that  merely  explanatory  function,'  it  became  the  seal  of 
an  extreme  sorrow,  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  the  pen- 
sive fable  was  associated  with  a  flower  so  familiar,  so  bright, 
and  so  popularly  of  good  omen,  as  the  Speedwell. 

18.  Yet,  the  fact  being  actually  so,  and  this  consecration  of 
the  veronica  being  certainly  far  more  ancient  and  earnest  than 
the  faintly  romantic  and  extremely  absurd  legend  of  the  forget- 
me-not  ;  the  Speedwell  has  assuredly  the  higher  claim  to  be 
given  and  accepted  as  a  token  of  pure  and  faithful  love,  and 
to  be  trusted  as  a  sweet  sign  that  the  innocence  of  affection  is 
indeed  more  frequent,  and  the  appointed  destiny  of  its  faith 
more  fortunate,  than  our  inattentive  hearts  have  hitherto  dis- 
cerned. 

19.  And  this  the  more,  because  the  recognized  virtues  and 
uses  of  the  plant  are  real  and  manifold  :  and  the  ideas  of  a 
peculiar  honourableness  and  worth  of  life  connected  with  it 
by  the  German  popular  name  '  Honour-prize  9  ;  while  to  the 
heart  of  the  British  race,  the  same  thought  is  brought  home 
by  Shakespeare's  adoption  of  the  flower's  Welsh  name,  for  the 
faithfullest  common  soldier  of  his  ideal  king.  As  a  lover's 
pledge,  therefore,  it  does  not  merely  mean  memory  ; — for,  in- 
deed, wThy  should  love  be  thought  of  as  such  at  all,  if  it  need 
to  promise  not  to  forget  ? — but  the  blossom  is  significant  also 
of  the  lover's  best  virtues,  patience  in  suffering,  purity  in 
thought,  gaiety  in  courage,  and  serenity  in  truth  :  and  there- 
fore I  make  it,  worthily,  the  clasping  and  central  flower  of 
the  Cytherides. 


220 


PROSERPINA. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

G-IULIETTA. 

1.  Supposing  that,  in  early  life,  one  had  the  power  of  living 
to  one's  fancy, — and  why  should  we  not,  if  the  said  fancy  were 
restrained  by  the  knowledge  of  the  two  great  laws  concerning 
our  nature,  that  happiness  is  increased,  not  by  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  possessions,  but  of  the  heart ;  and  days  length- 
ened, not  by  the  crowding  of  emotions,  but  the  economy  of 
them  ? — if  thus  taught,  we  had,  I  repeat,  the  ordering  of  our 
house  and  estate  in  our  own  hands,  I  believe  no  manner  of 
temperance  in  pleasure  would  be  better  rewarded  than  that  of 
making  our  gardens  gay  only  with  common  flowers  ;  and 
leaving  those  which  needed  care  for  their  transplanted  life  to 
be  found  in  their  native  places  when  we  travelled.  So  long  as  I 
had  crocus  and  daisy  in  the  spring,  roses  in  the  summer,  and 
hollyhocks  and  pinks  in  the  autumn,  I  used  to  be  myself  inde- 
pendent of  farther  horticulture, — and  it  is  only  now  that  I  am 
old,  and  since  pleasant  travelling  has  become  impossible  to 
me,  that  I  am  thankful  to  have  the  white  narcissus  in  my  bor- 
ders, instead  of  waiting  to  walk  through  the  fragrance  of  the 
meadows  of  Clarens  ;  and  pleased  to  see  the  milkwort  blue  on 
my  scythe-mown  banks,  since  I  cannot  gather  it  any  more  on 
the  rocks  of  the  Vosges,  or  in  the  divine  glens  of  Jura. 

2.  Among  the  losses,  all  the  more  fatal  in  being  unfelt, 
brought  upon  us  by  the  fury  and  vulgarity  of  modern  life,  I 
count  for  one  of  the  saddest,  the  loss  of  the  wish  to  gather  a 
flower  in  travelling.  The  other  day, — whether  indeed  a  sign 
of  some  dawning  of  doubt  and  remorse  in  the  public  mind,  as 
to  the  perfect  jubilee  of  railroad  journey,  or  merely  a  piece  of 
the  common  daily  flattery  on  which  the  power  of  the  British 
press  first  depends,  I  cannot  judge  ; — but,  for  one  or  other  of 
Buch  motives,  I  saw  lately  in  some  illustrated  paper,  a  pictorial 
comparison  of  old-fashioned  and  modern  travel,  representing, 
as  the  type  of  things  passed  away,  the  outside  passengers  of 


G1UL1ETTA. 


221 


the  mail  shrinking  into  huddled  and  silent  distress  from  the 
swirl  of  a  winter  snowstorm  ;  and  for  type  of  the  present  Ely- 
sian  dispensation,  the  inside  of  a  first-class  saloon  carriage, 
with  a  beautiful  young  lady  in  the  last  pattern  of  Parisian 
travelling  dress,  conversing,  Daily  news  in  hand,  with  a  young 
officer — her  fortunate  vis-a-vis — on  the  subject  of  our  militarv 
successes  in  Afghanistan  and  Zululand.* 

3.  I  will  not,  in  presenting — it  must  not  be  called,  the 
other  side,  but  the  supplementary,  and  wilfully  omitted, 
facts,  of  this  ideal, — oppose,  as  I  fairly  might,  the  discomforts 
of  a  modern  cheap  excursion  train,  to  the  chariot-and-four, 
with  outriders  and  courier,  of  ancient  noblesse.  I  will  com- 
pare only  the  actual  facts,  in  the  former  and  in  latter  years,  of 
my  own  journey  from  Paris  to  Geneva.  As  matters  are  now 
arranged,  I  find  myself,  at  half-past  eight  in  the  evening, 
waiting  in  a  confused  crowd  with  which  I  am  presently  to 
contend  for  a  seat,  in  the  dim  light  and  cigar-stench  of  the 
great  station  of  the  Lyons  line.  Making  slow  way  through 
the  hostilities  of  the  platform,  in  partly  real,  partly  weak  po- 
liteness, as  may  be,  I  find  the  corner  seats  of  course  already 
full  of  prohibitory  cloaks  and  umbrellas  ;  but  manage  to  get 
a  middle  back  one ;  the  net  overhead  is  already  surcharged 
with  a  bulging  extra  portmanteau,  so  that  I  squeeze  my  desk 
as  well  as  I  can  between  my  legs,  and  arrange  what  wraps  I 
have  about  my  knees  and  shoulders.  Follow  a  couple  of 
hours  of  simple  patience,  with  nothing  to  entertain  one's 
thoughts  but  the  steady  roar  of  the  line  under  the  wheels,  the 
blinking  and  dripping  of  the  oil  lantern,  and  the  more  or  less 
ungainly  wretchedness,  and  variously  sullen  compromises 
and  encroachments  of  posture,  among  the  five  other  passen- 
gers preparing  themselves  for  sleep  :  the  last  arrangement  for 
the  night  being  to  shut  up  both  windows,  in  order  to  effect, 
with  our  six  breaths,  a  salutary  modification  of  the  night  air. 

4.  The  banging  and  bumping  of  the  carriages  over  the  turn- 
tables wakes  me  up  as  I  am  beginning  to  doze,  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  and  again  at  Sens  ;  and  the  trilling  and  thrilling  of  the 

*  See  letter  on  the  last  results  of  our  African  campaigns,  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post  of  April  14th,  of  this  year. 


222 


PROSERPINA. 


little  telegraph  bell  establishes  itself  in  my  ears,  and  staya 
there,  trilling  me  at  last  into  a  shivering,  suspicious  sort  of 
sleep,  which,  with  a  few  vaguely  fretful  shrugs  and  fidgets, 
carries  me  as  far  as  Tonnerre,  where  the  £  quinze  minutes 
d'arret'  revolutionize  everything  ;  and  I  get  a  turn  or  two  on 
the  platform,  and  perhaps  a  glimpse  of  the  stars,  with  promise 
of  a  clear  morning  ;  and  so  generally  keep  awake  past  Mont 
Bard,  remembering  the  happy  walks  one  vised  to  have  on  the 
terrace  under  Buffon's  tower,  and  thence  watching,  if  per- 
chance, from  the  mouth  of  the  high  tunnel,  any  film  of  moon- 
light may  show  the  far  undulating  masses  of  the  hills  of 
Citeaux.  But  most  likely  one  knows  the  place  where  the 
great  old  view  used  to  be  only  by  the  sensible  quickening  of 
the  pace  as  the  train  turns  down  the  incline,  and  crashes 
through  the  trenched  cliffs  into  the  confusion  and  high  clat- 
tering vault  of  the  station  at  Dijon. 

5.  And  as  my  journey  is  almost  always  in  the  spring-time, 
the  twisted  spire  of  the  cathedral  usually  shows  itself  against 
the  first  grey  of  dawn,  as  we  run  out  again  southwards  ;  and 
resolving  to  watch  the  sunrise,  I  fall  more  complacently  asleep, 
— and  the  sun  is  really  up  by  the  time  one  has  to  change  car- 
riages, and  get  morning  coffee  at  Macon.  And  from  Ambe- 
rieux,  through  the  Jura  valley,  one  is  more  or  less  feverishly 
happy  and  thankful,  not  so  much  for  being  in  sight  of  Mont 
Blanc  again,  as  in  having  got  through  the  nasty  and  gloomy 
night  journey  ;  and  then  the  sight  of  the  Rhone  and  the 
Saleve  seems  only  like  a  dream,  presently  to  end  in  nothing- 
ness ;  till,  covered  with  dust,  and  feeling  as  if  one  never  should 
be  fit  for  anything  any  more,  one  staggers  down  the  hill  to  the 
Hotel  des  Bergues,  and  gees  the  dirtied  Rhone,  with  its  new 
iron  bridge,  and  the  smoke  of  a  new  factory  exactly  dividing 
the  line  of  the  aiguilles  of  Chamouni. 

6.  That  is  the  journey  as  it  is  now, — and  as,  for  me,  it  must 
be ;  except  on  foot,  since  there  is  now  no  other  way  of  making 
it.    But  this  was  the  way  we  used  to  manage  it  in  old  clays  : — 

Very  early  in  Continental  transits  we  had  found  out  that 
the  family  travelling  carriage,  taking  much  time  and  ingenuity 
to  load,  needing  at  the  least  three,  usually  four — horses,  and 


GIULIETTA. 


223 


on  Alpine  passes  six,  not  only  jolted  and  lagged  painfully  on 
bad  roads,  but  was  liable  in  every  way  to  more  awkward  dis- 
comfitures than  lighter  vehicles  ;  getting  itself  jammed  in 
archways,  wrenched  with  damage  out  of  ruts,  and  involved  in 
volleys  of  justifiable  reprobation  among  market  stalls.  So 
when  we  knewT  better,  my  father  and  mother  always  had  their 
own  old-fashioned  light  two-horse  carriage  to  themselves,  and 
I  had  one  made  with  any  quantity  of  front  and  side  pockets 
for  books  and  picked  up  stones  ;  and  hung  very  low,  with  a 
fixed  side-step,  which  I  could  get  off  or  on  with  the  horses  at 
the  trot ;  and  at  any  rise  or  fail  of  the  road,  relieve  them,  and 
get  my  owrn  walk,  without  troubling  the  driver  to  think  of  me. 

7.  Thus,  leaving  Paris  in  the  bright  spring  morning,  when 
the  Seine  glittered  gaily  at  Charenton,  and  the  arbres  de 
Judee  were  mere  pyramids  of  purple  bloom  round  Villeneuve- 
St. -Georges,  one  had  an  afternoon  wralk  among  the  rocks  of 
Fontainebleau,  and  next  day  we  got  early  into  Sens,  for  new 
lessons  in  its  cathedral  aisles,  and  the  first  saunter  among  the 
budding  vines  of  the  coteaux.  I  finished  my  plate  of  the 
Tower  of  Giotto,  for  the  'Seven  Lamps,' in  the  old  inn  at 
Sens,  which  Dickens  has  described  in  his  wholly  matchless 
way  in  the  last  chapter  of  c  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings/  The 
next  day  brought  us  to  the  oolite  limestones  at  Mont  Bard, 
and  we  always  spent  the  Sunday  at  the  Bell  in  Dijon.  Mon- 
day, the  drive  of  drives,  through  the  village  of  Genlis,  the 
fortress  of  Auxonne,  and  up  the  hill  to  the  vine-surrounded 
town  of  Dole  ;  w7hence,  behold  at  last  the  limitless  ranges  of 
Jura,  south  and  north,  beyond  the  woody  plain,  and  above 
them  the  '  Derniers  Bochers '  and  the  white  square-set  summit, 
worshipped  ever  anew.  Then  at  Poligny,  the  same  afternoon, 
we  gathered  the  first  milkwort  for  that  year  ;  and  on  Tuesday, 
at  St.  Laurent,  the  wild  lily  of  the  valley  ;  and  on  Wednesday, 
at  Morez,  gentians. 

And  on  Thursday,  the  eighth  or  ninth  day  from  Paris,  days 
all  spent  patiently  and  well,  one  saw  from  the  gained  height 
of  Jura,  the  great  Alps  unfold  themselves  in  their  chains  and 
wreaths  of  incredible  crest  and  cloud. 

8.  Unhappily,  during  all  the  earliest  and  usefullest  years  of 


224 


PROSERPIJSA. 


sucli  travelling,  I  had  no  thought  of  ever  taking  up  botany  as 
a  study  ;  feeling  well  that  even  geology,  which  was  antecedent 
to  painting  with  me,  could  not  be  followed  out  in  connection 
with  art  but  under  strict  limits,  and  with  sore  shortcomings. 
It  has  only  been  the  later  discovery  of  the  uselessness  of  old 
scientific  botany,  and  the  abominableness  of  new,  as  an  ele- 
ment of  education  for  youth  ; — and  my  certainty  that  a  true 
knowledge  of  their  native  Flora  was  meant  by  Heaven  to  be 
one  of  the  first  heart-possessions  of  every  happy  boy  and  girl 
in  flower-bearing  lands,  that  have  compelled  me  to  gather  into 
system  my  fading  memories,  and  wandering  thoughts.  And 
of  course  in  the  diaries  written  at  places  of  which  I  now  want 
chiefly  the  details  of  the  Flora,  I  find  none  ;  and  in  this  in- 
stance of  the  milkwort,  whose  name  I  was  first  told  by  the 
Chamouni  guide,  Joseph  Couttet,  then  walking  with  me  on 
the  unperilous  turf  of  the  first  rise  of  the  Vosges,  wTest  of 
Strasburg,  and  rebuking  me  indignantly  for  my  complaint 
that,  being  then  thirty-seven  years  old,  and  not  yet  able  to 
draw  the  great  plain  and  distant  spire,  it  w7as  of  no  use  trying  in 
the  poor  remainder  of  life  to  do  anything  serious, — then,  and 
there,  I  say,  for  the  first  time  examining  the  strange  little 
flower,  and  always  associating  it,  since,  with  the  limestone 
crags  of  Alsace  and  Burgundy,*  I  don't  find  a  single  note  of 
its  preferences  or  antipathies  in  other  districts,  and  cannot 
say  a  word  about  the  soil  it  chooses,  or  the  height  it  ventures, 
or  the  familiarities  to  which  it  condescends,  on  the  Alps  or 
Apennines. 

9.  But  one  thing  I  have  ascertained  of  it,  lately  at  Brant- 
wood,  that  it  is  capricious  and  fastidious  beyond  any  other 
little  blossom  I  know  of.  In  laying  out  the  rock  garden,  most 
of  the  terrace  sides  were  trusted  to  remnants  of  the  natural 
slope,  propped  by  fragments  of  stone,  among  which  nearly 
every  other  wild  flower  that  likes  sun  and  air,  is  glad  some- 
times to  root  itself.  But  at  the  top  of  all,  one  terrace  w7as 
brought  to  mathematically  true  level  of  surface,  and  slope  of 

*  I  deliberately,  not  garrulously,  allow  more  autobiography  in  1  Pro- 
serpina '  than  is  becoming,  because  I  know  not  how  far  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  carry  on  that  which  was  begun  in  1  Fors.' 


GIULIETTA.  225 

side,  and  turfed  with  delicately  chosen  and  adjusted  sods, 
meant  to  be  kept  duly  trim  by  the  scythe.  And  only  on  this 
terrace  does  the  Giulietta  choose  to  show  herself, — and  even 
there,  not  in  any  consistent  places,  but  gleaming  out  here  in 
one  year,  there  in  another,  like  little  bits  of  unexpected  sky 
through  cloud  ;  and  entirely  refusing  to  allow  either  bank  or 
terrace  to  be  mown  the  least  trim  during  her  time  of  disport 
there.  So  spared  and  indulged,  there  are  no  more  wayward 
things  in  all  the  woods  or  wilds  ;  no  more  delicate  and  per- 
fect things  to  be  brought  up  by  watch  through  day  and  night, 
than  her  recumbent  clusters,  trickling,  sometimes  almost 
gushing  through  the  grass,  and  meeting  in  tiny  pools  of  flaw- 
less blue. 

10.  I  will  not  attempt  at  present  to  arrange  the  varieties 
of  the  Giulietta,  for  I  find  that  all  the  larger  and  presumably 
characteristic  forms  belong  to  the  Cape  ;  and  only  since  Mr. 
Froude  came  back  from  his  African  explorings  have  I  been 
able  to  get  any  clear  idea  of  the  brilliancy  and  associated  in- 
finitude of  the  Cape  flowers.  If  I  could  but  write  down  the 
substance  of  what  he  has  told  me,  in  the  course  of  a  chat  or 
two,  which  have  been  among  the  best  privileges  of  my  recent 
stay  in  London,  (prolonged  as  it  has  been  by  recurrence  of 
illness,)  it  would  be  a  better  summary  of  what  should  be 
generallj'  known  in  the  natural  history  of  southern  plants  than 
I  could  glean  from  fifty  volumes  of  horticultural  botany.  In 
the  meantime,  everything  being  again  thrown  out  of  gear  by 
the  aforesaid  illness,  I  must  let  this  piece  of  '  Proserpina ' 
break  off,  as  most  of  my  work  does — and  as  perhaps  all  of  it 
may  soon  do — leaving  only  suggestion  for  the  happier  re- 
search of  the  students  who  trust  me  thus  far. 

11.  Some  essential  points  respecting  the  flower  I  shall  note, 
however,  before  ending.  There  is  one  large  and  frequent 
species  of  it  of  which  the  flowers  are  delicately  yellow,  touched 
with  tawny  red  forming  one  of  the  chief  elements  of  wild  fore- 
ground vegetation  in  the  healthy  districts  of  hard  Alpine  lime- 
stone.*   This  is,  I  believe,  the  only  European  type  of  the  large 

*  In  present  Botany,  Polygala  Chamrebuxus ;  C.  316:  or,  in  English, 
Much  Milk  Ground-box.    It  is  not,  as  matters  usually  go,  a  name  to  be 


226 


PROSERPINA. 


Cape  varieties,  in  all  of  which,  judging  from  such  plates  as 
have  been  accessible  to  me,  the  crests  or  fringes  of  the  lower 
petal  are  less  conspicuous  than  in  the  smaller  species ;  and 
the  flower  almost  takes  the  aspect  of  a  broom-blossom  or 
pease-blossom.  In  the  smaller  European  varieties,  the  white 
fringes  of  the  lower  petal  are  the  most  important  and  charac- 
teristic part  of  the  flower,  and  they  are,  among  European  wild 
flowers,  absolutely  without  any  likeness  of  associated  struct- 
ure. The  fringes  or  crests  which,  towards  the  origin  of  petals, 
so  often  give  a  frosted  or  gemmed  appearance  to  the  centres 
of  flowers,  are  here  thrown  to  the  extremity  of  the  petal,  and 
suggest  an  almost  coralline  structure  of  blossom,  which  in  no 
other  instance  whatever  has  been  imitated,  still  less  carried 
out  into  its  conceivable  varieties  of  form.  How  many  such 
varieties  might  have  been  produced  if  these  fringes  of  the 
Giulietta,  or  those  already  alluded  to  of  Lucia  nivea,  had  been 
repeated  and  enlarged  ;  as  the  type,  once  adopted  for  complex 
bloom  in  the  thistle-head,  is  multiplied  in  the  innumerable 
gradations  of  thistle,  teasel,  hawkweed,  and  aster !  We  might 
have  had  flowers  edged  with  lace  finer  than  was  ever  woven 
by  mortal  fingers,  or  tasselled  and  braided  with  fretwork  of 
silver,  never  tarnished — or  hoarfrost  that  grew  brighter  in  the 
sun.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  after  a  few  hints  of  what 
might  be  done  in  this  kind,  the  Fate,  or  Folly,  or,  on  recent 
theories,  the  extreme  fitness — and  consequent  survival,  of  the 
Thistles  and  Dandelions,  entirely  drives  the  fringed  Lucias 
and  blue-flushing  milkworts  out  of  common  human  neighbour- 
hood, to  live  recluse  lives  with  the  memories  of  the  abbots  of 
Cluny,  and  pastors  of  Piedmont. 

12.  I  have  called  the  Giulietta  c  h\\xe-fiushing  9  because  it  is 

ill  thought  of,  as  it  really  contains  three  ideas  ;  and  the  plant  does, 
without  doubt,  somewhat  resemble  box,  and  grows  on  the  ground  ; — far 
more  fitly  called  'ground-box  '  than  the  Veronica  'ground-oak.*  I  want 
to  find  a  pretty  name  for  it  in  connection  with  Savoy  or  Dauphine, 
where  it  indicates,  as  above  stated,  the  healthy  districts  of  hard  lime- 
stone. I  do  not  remember  it  as  ever  occurring  among  the  dark  and  moist 
shales  of  the  inner  mountain  ranges,  which  at  once  confine  and  pollute 
the  air. 


0IUL1ETTA. 


227 


one  of  the  group  of  exquisite  flowers  which  at  the  time  of 
their  own  blossoming,  breathe  their  colour  into  the  surround- 
ing leaves  and  supporting  stem.  Very  notably  the  Grape 
hyacinth  and  Jura  hyacinth,  and  some  of  the  Vestals,  empur- 
pling all  their  green  leaves  even  to  the  ground :  a  quite  dis- 
tinct nature  in  the  flower,  observe,  this  possession  of  a  power 
to  kindle  the  leaf  and  stem  with  its  own  passion,  from  that  of 
the  heaths,  roses,  or  lilies,  where  the  determined  bracts  or 
calices  assert  themselves  in  opposition  to  the  blossom,  as  little 
pine-leaves,  or  mosses,  or  brown-paper  packages,  and  the 
like. 

13.  The  Giulietta,  however,  is  again  entirely  separate  from 
the  other  leaf-flushing  blossoms,  in  that,  after  the  two  green 
leaves  next  the  flower  have  glowed  with  its  blue,  while  it  lived, 
they  do  not  fade  or  waste  with  it,  but  return  to  their  own 
former  green  simplicity,  and  close  over  it  to  protect  the  seed. 
I  only  know  this  to  be  the  case  with  the  Giulietta  Regina  ;  but 
suppose  it  to  be  (with  variety  of  course  in  the  colours)  a  con- 
dition in  other  species, — though  of  course  nothing  is  ever  said 
of  it  in  the  botanical  accounts  of  them.  I  gather,  however, 
from  Curtis's  careful  drawings  that  the  prevailing  colour  of 
the  Cape  species  is  purple,  thus  justifying  still  further  my 
placing  them  among  the  Cytherides  ;  and  I  am  content  to  take 
the  descriptive  epithets  at  present  given  them,  for  the  follow- 
ing five  of  this  southern  group,  hoping  that  they  may  be  ex- 
plained for  me  afterwards  by  helpful  friends. 

14.  Bracteolata,  C.  345. 
Oppositifolia,  C.  492. 
Speciosa,        C.  1790. 

These  three  all  purple,  and  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
sweet  pease-blossom,  only  smaller. 

Stipulacea,  C.  1715.  Small,  and  very  beautiful,  lilac  and 
purple,  with  a  leaf  and  mode  of  growth  like  rosemary.  The 
" Foxtail"  milkwort,  whose  name  I  don't  accept,  C.  1006,  is 
intermediate  between  this  and  the  next  species. 

15.  Mixta,  C.  1714.  I  don't  see  what  mingling  is  meant, 
except  that  it  is  just  like  Erica  tetralix  in  the  leaf,  only,  ap- 
parently, having  little  four-petalled  pinks  for  blossoms.  This 


228 


PROSERPINA. 


appearance  is  thus  botanicaliy  explained.  I  do  not  myself 
understand  the  description,  but  copy  it,  thinking  it  may  be  of 
use  to  somebody.  "  The^apex  of  the  carina  is  expanded  into 
a  two-lobed  plain  petal,  the  lobes  of  which  are  emarginate. 
This  appendix  is  of  a  bright  rose  colour,  and  forms  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  the  flower."  The  describer  relaxes,  or  relapses, 
into  common  language  so  far  as  to  add  that  '  this  appendix  * 
"  dispersed  among  the  green  foliage  in  every  par*  of  the  shrub, 
gives  it  a  pretty  lively  appearance." 

Perhaps  this  may  also  be  worth  extracting. 

"Carina,  deeply  channelled,  of  a  saturated  purple  within, 
sides  folded  together,  so  as  to  include  and  firmly  embrace  the 
style  and  stamens,  which,  when  arrived  at  maturity,  upon 
being  moved,  escape  elastically  from  their  confinement,  and 
strike  against  the  two  erect  petals  or  ajse — by  which  the  pollen 
is  dispersed. 

"  Stem  shrubby,  with  long  flexile  branches."  (Length  or 
height  not  told,    I  imagine  like  an  ordinary  heath's.) 

The  term  '  carina,'  occurring  twice  in  the  above  description, 
is  peculiar  to  the  structure  of  the  pease  and  milkworts ;  we 
will  examine  it  afterwards.  The  European  varieties  of  the 
milkwort,  except  the  chamsebuxus,  are  all  minute, — and,  their 
ordinary  epithets  being  at  least  inoffensive,  I  give  them  for 
reference  till  we  find  prettier  ones  ;  altering  only  the  Calcarea, 
because  we  could  not  have  a  \  Chalk  Juliet/  and  two  varieties 
of  the  Kegina,  changed  for  reason  good — her  name,  according 
to  the  last  modern  refinements  of  grace  and  ease  in  pronunci- 
tion,  being  Eu-vulgaris,  var.  genuina  !  My  readers  may  more 
happily  remember  her  and  her  sister  as  follows : — 

16.  (i.)  Giulietta  Eegina.  Pure  Blue.  The  same  in  colour, 
form,  and  size  throughout  Europe, 
(n.)  Giulietta  Soror-Eeginae.  Pale,  reddish-blue  or 
white  in  the  flower,  and  smaller  in  the  leaf, 
othei^wise  like  the  Eegina. 
(hi.)  Giulietta  Depressa.  The  smallest  of  those  I  can 
find  drawings  of.  Flowers,  blue  ;  lilac  in  the 
fringe,  and  no  bigger  than  pins'  heads ;  the 
leaves  quite  gem-like  in  minuteness  and  order. 


GIULIETTA. 


229 


(iv.)  Giulietta  Cisterciana.  Its  present  name  \  Cal- 
carea,'  is  meant,  in  botanic  Latin,  to  express  its 
growth  on  limestone  or  chalk  mountains.  But 
we  might  as  well  call  the  South  Down  sheep, 
Calcareous  mutton.  My  epithet  will  rightly 
associate  it  with  the  Burgundian  hills  round 
Cluny  and  Citeaux.  Its  ground  leaves  are 
much  larger  than  those  of  the  Depressa  ;  the 
flower  a  little  larger,  but  very  pale, 
(v.)  Giulietta  Austriaca.  Pink,  and  very  lovely,  with 
bold  cluster  of  ground  leaves,  but  itself  minute 
— almost  dwarf.  Called  £  small  bitter  milkwort ' 
by  S.  How  far  distinct  from  the  next  follow- 
ing one,  Norwegian,  is  not  told. 

The  above  five  kinds  are  given  by  Sowerby 
as  British,  but  I  have  never  found  the  Austriaca 
myself. 

(vi.)  Giulietta  Amara.  Norwegian.  Very  quaint  in 
blossom  outline,  like  a  little  blue  rabbit  with 
long  ears.    D.  1169. 

17.  Nobody  tells  me  why  either  this  last  or  No.  5  have 
been  called  bitter  ;  and  Gerarde's  five  kinds  are  distinguished 
only  by  colour— blue,  red,  white,  purple,  and  "the  dark,  of 
an  overworn  ill-favoured  colour,  which  maketh  it  to  differ 
from  all  others  of  his  kind."  I  find  no  account  of  this  ill- 
favoured  one  elsewhere.  The  white  is  my  Soror  Keginse  ; 
the  red  must  be  the  Austriaca ;  but  the  purple  and  overworn 
ones  are  perhaps  now  overworn  indeed.  All  of  them  must 
have  been  more  common  in  Gerarde's  time  than  now,  for  he 
goes  on  to  say  "Milkwoort  is  called  Ambarualis  flos,  so  called 
because  it  doth  specially  flourish  in  the  Crosse  or  Gang-weeke, 
or  Eogation-weeke,  of  which  flowers,  the  maidens  which  use 
in  the  countries  to  walk  the  procession  do  make  themselves 
garlands  and  nosegaies,  in  English  we  may  call  it  Crosse 
flower,  Gang  flower,  Rogation  flower,  and  Milk-woor!5' 

18.  Above,  at  page  151,  vol.  i.,  in  first  arranging  the 
Cytherides,  I  too  hastily  concluded  that  the  ascription  to  this 
plant  of  helpfulness  to  nursing  mothers  was  1  more  than  orcli- 


230 


PROSERPINA. 


narily  false ' ;  thinking  that  its  rarity  could  never  have  allowed 
it  to  be  fairly  tried.  If  indeed  true,  or  in  any  degree  true, 
the  flower  has  the  best  right  of  all  to  be  classed  with  the 
Cytherides,  and  we  might  have  as  much  of  it  for  beauty  and 
for  service  as  we  chose,  if  we  only  took  half  the  pains  to  gar- 
nish our  summer  gardens  with  living  and  life-giving  blossom, 
that  we  do  to  garnish  our  winter  gluttonies  with  dying  and 
useless  ones. 

19.  I  have  said  nothing  of  root,  or  fruit,  or  seed,  having 
never  had  the  hardness  of  heart  to  pull  up  a  milkwort 
cluster — nor  the  chance  of  watching  one  in  seed  : — The 
pretty  thing  vanishes  as  it  comes,  like  the  blue  sky  of  April, 
and  leaves  no  sign  of  itself— that  /  ever  found.  The  botanists 
tell  me  that  its  fruit  "  dehisces  loculicidally/'  which  I  suppose 
is  botanic  for  ((  splits  like  boxes,"  (but  boxes  shouldn't  split, 
and  didn't,  as  we  used  to  make  and  han-dle  them  before  rail- 
ways). Out  of  the  split  boxes  fall  seeds — too  few  ;  and,  as 
aforesaid,  the  plant  never  seems  to  grow  again  in  the  same 
spot.  I  should  thankfully  receive  any  notes  from  friends 
happy  enough  to  live  near  milkwort  banks,  on  the  manner  of 
its  nativity. 

20.  Meanwhile,  the  Thistle,  and  the  Nettle,  and  the  Dock, 
and  the  Dandelion  are  cared  for  in  their  generations  by  the 
finest  arts  of — Providence,  shall  we  say?  or  of  the  spirits 
appointed  to  punish  our  own  want  of  Providence  ?  May  I 
ask  the  reader  to  look  back  to  the  seventh  chapter  of  the  first 
volume,  for  it  contains  suggestions  of  thoughts  which  came 
to  me  at  a  time  of  very  earnest  and  faithful  inquiry,  set 
down,  I  now  see  too  shortly,  under  the  press  of  reading  they 
involved,  but  intelligible  enough  if  they  are  read  as  slowly  as 
they  were  written,  and  especially  note  the  paragraph  of  sum- 
mary of  p.  86  on  the  power  of  the  Earth  Mother,  as  Mother, 
and  as  Judge  ;  watching  and  rewarding  the  conditions  which 
induce  adversity  and  prosperity  in  the  kingdoms  of  men : 
comparing  with  it  carefully  the  close  of  the  fourth  chapter,  p. 
63,*  which  contains,  for  the  now  recklessly  multiplying  classes 

*  Which,  with  the  following  page,  is  the  summary  of  many  chapters 
of  *  Modern  Painters : 9  and  of  the  aims  kept  in  view  throughout  4  Mu 


Plate  XL— States  op  Adversity. 


0 


G1UL1ETTA. 


231 


of  artists  and  colonists ;  truths  essential  to  their  skill,  and 
inexorable  upon  their  labour. 

21.  The  pen-drawing  facsimiled  by  Mr.  Allen  with  more 
than  his  usual  care  in  the  frontispiece  to  this  number  of 
'Proserpina,'  was  one  of  many  executed  during  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  schools  of  Gothic  (German,  and  later  French), 
which  founded  their  minor  ornamentation  on  the  serration  of 
the  thistle  leaf,  as  the  Greeks  on  that  of  the  Acanthus,  but 
with  a  consequent,  and  often  morbid,  love  of  thorny  points, 
and  insistance  upon  jagged  or  knotted  intricacies  of  stubborn 
vegetation,  which  is  connected  in  a  deeply  mysterious  way 
with  the  gloomier  forms  of  Catholic  asceticism.* 

22.  But  also,  in  beginning  '  Proserpina/  I  intended  to  give 
many  illustrations  of  the  light  and  shade  of  foreground  leaves 
belonging  to  the  nobler  groups  of  thistles,  because  I  thought 
they  had  been  neglected  by  ordinary  botanical  draughtsmen  ; 
not  knowing  at  that  time  either  the  original  drawings  at  Oxford 
for  the  'Flora  Grseca,'  or  the  nobly  engraved  plates  executed  in 
the  close  of  the  last  century  for  the  '  Flora  Danica '  and  £  Flora 
Londinensis.'  The  latter  is  in  the  most  difficult  portraiture 
of  the  larger  plants,  even  the  more  wonderful  of  the  two  ;  and 
had  I  seen  the  miracles  of  skill,  patience,  and  faithful  study 
which  are  collected  in  the  first  and  second  volumes,  published 
in  1777  and  1798,  I  believe  my  own  work  would  never  have 
been  undertaken.-)-  Such  as  it  is,  however,  I  may  still,  health 
being  granted  me,  persevere  in  it ;  for  my  own  leaf  and  branch 
studies  express  conditions  of  shade  which  even  these  most  ex- 

nera  Pulveris. '  The  three  kinds  of  Desert  specified — of  Reed,  Sand, 
and  Rock — should  be  kept  in  mind  as  exhaustively  including  the 
states  of  the  earth  neglected  by  man.  For  instance  of  a  Reed  desert, 
produced  merely  by  his  neglect,  see  Sir  Samuel  Baker's  account  of  the 
choking  up  of  the  bed  of  the  White  Nile.  Of  the  sand  desert,  Sir  F. 
Palgrave's  journey  from  the  Djowf  to  Hayel,  vol.  i. ,  p.  92. 

*  This  subject  is  first  entered  on  in  the  'Seven  Lamps,'  and  carried 
forward  in  the  final  chapters  of  '  Modern  Painters, '  to  the  point  where 
I  hope  to  take  it  up  for  conclusion,  in  the  sections  of  1  Our  Fathers  have 
told  us '  devoted  to  the  history  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

f  See  in  the  first  volume,  the  plates  of  Sonchus  Arvensis  and  Tussi- 
lago  Petasites  ;  in  the  second,  Carduus  tomentosus  and  Ficris  Echioides, 


232 


PBOSERPINA. 


quisite  botanical  plates  ignore ;  and  exemplify  uses  of  the  pen 
and  pencil  which  cannot  be  learned  from  the  inimitable  fine- 
ness of  line  engraving.  The  frontispiece  to  this  number,  for 
instance,  (a  seeding  head  of  the  commonest  field-thistle  of  our 
London  suburbs,)  copied  with  a  ^teel  pen  on  smooth  grey 
paper,  and  the  drawing  softly  touched  with  white  on  the 
nearer  thorns,  may  well  surpass  the  effect  of  the  plate. 

23.  In  the  following  number  of  '  Proserpina '  I  have  been 
tempted  to  follow,  with  more  minute  notice  than  usual,  the 
*  conditions  of  adversity '  which,  as  they  fret  the  thistle  tribe 
into  jagged  malice,  have  humbled  the  beauty  of  the  great  do- 
mestic group  of  the  Vestals  into  confused  likenesses  of  the 
Dragonweed  and  Nettle :  but  I  feel  every  hour  more  and  more 
the  necessity  of  separating  the  treatment  of  subjects  in  'Pro- 
serpina '  from  the  microscopic  curiosities  of  recent  botanic 
illustration,  nor  shall  this  work  close,  if  my  strength  hold, 
without  fulfilling  in  some  sort,  the  effort  begun  long  ago  in 
'  Modern  Painters/  to  interpret  the  grace  of  the  larger  blos- 
soming trees,  and  the  mysteries  of  leafy  form  which  clothe 
the  Swiss  precipice  with  gentleness,  and  colour  with  softest 
azure  the  rich  horizons  of  England  and  Italy. 


INDEX  I. 


DESCRIPTIVE  NOMENCLATURE. 

Plants  in  perfect  form  are  said,  at  page  22,  to  consist  of 
four  principal  parts :  root,  stem,  leaf,  and  flower.  (Compare 
Chapter  V.,  §  2.)  The  reader  may  have  been  surprised  at  the 
omission  of  the  fruit  from  this  list.  But  a  plant  which  has 
borne  fruit  is  no  longer  of  '  perfect '  form.  Its  flower  is  dead. 
And,  observe,  it  is  further  said,  at  page  49,  (and  compare 
Chapter  HI.,  §  2,)  that  the  use  of  the  fruit  is  to  produce  the 
flower :  not  of  the  flower  to  produce  the  fruit.  Therefore, 
the  plant  in  perfect  blossom,  is  itself  perfect.  Nevertheless, 
the  formation  of  the  fruit,  practically,  is  included  in  the 
flower,  and  so  spoken  of  in  the  fifteenth  line  of  the  same 
page. 

Each  of  these  four  main  parts  of  a  plant  consist  normally 
of  a  certain  series  of  minor  parts,  to  which  it  is  well  to  attach 
easily  remembered  names.  In  this  section  of  my  index  I  will 
not  admit  the  confusion  of  idea  involved  by  alphabetical  ar- 
rangement of  these  names,  but  will  sacrifice  facility  of  refer- 
ence to  clearness  of  explanation,  and  taking  the  four  great 
parts  of  the  plant  in  succession,  I  will  give  the  list  of  the 
minor  and  constituent  parts,  with  their  names  as  determined 
in  Proserpina,  and  reference  to  the  pages  where  the  reasons 
for  such  determination  are  given,  endeavouring  to  supply,  at 
the  same  time,  any  deficiencies  which  I  find  in  the  body  of 
the  text. 


234 


INDEX. 


I.  The  Boot. 

PAGE 

Origin  of  the  word  Root   23 

The  offices  of  the  root  are  threefold:  namely,  Tenure,  Nourish- 
ment, and  Animation  23-28 

The  essential  parts  of  a  Root  are  two :  the  Limbs  and  Fibres   27 

I.  The  Limb  is  the  gathered  mass  of  fibres,  or  at  least  of  fibrous 

substance,  which  extends  itself  in  search  of  nourishment  ...  26 

II.  The  Fibre  is  the  organ  by  which  the  nourishment  is  re- 

ceived   27 

The  inessential  or  accidental  parts  of  roots,  which  are  attached  to 
the  roots  of  some  plants,  but  not  to  those  of  others,  (and  arc, 
indeed,  for  the  most  part  absent,)  are  three:  namely,  Store- 
Houses,  Refuges,  and  Ruins  .   27 

III.  Store -Houses  contain  the  food  of  the  future  plant   27 

IV.  Refuges  shelter  the  future  plant  itself  for  a  time   28 

V.   Ruins  form  a  basis  for  the  growth  of  the  future  plant  in  its 

proper  order   29 

Root-Stocks,  the  accumulation  of  such  ruins  in  a  vital  order   30 

General  questions  relating  to  the  office  and  chemical  power  of  roots  31 

The  nomenclature  of  Roots  will  not  be  extended,  in  Pro- 
serpina, beyond  the  five  simple  terms  here  given  :  though 
the  ordinary  botanical  ones — corm,  bulb,  tuber,  etc. — will 
be  severally  explained  in  connection  with  the  plants  which 
they  specially  characterize. 


II.  The  Stem. 

Derivation  of  word   96 

The  channel  of  communication  between  leaf  and  root   107 

In  a  perfect  plant  it  consists  of  three  parts : 

I.  The  Stem  (Stemma)  proper. — A  growing  or  advancing  shoot 
which  sustains  all  the  other  organs  of  the  plant.   96 

It  may  grow  by  adding  thickness  to  its  sides  without  advancing  ; 

but  its  essential  characteristic  is  the  vital  power  of  Advance.  96 


INDEX. 


235 


PAGE 

It  may  be  round,  square,  or  polygonal,  but  is  always  roundly 

minded   96 

Its  structural  power  is  Spiral   96 

It  is  essentially  branched  ;   having  subordinate  leaf-stalks  and 

flower-stalks,  if  not  larger  branches   98 

It  developes  the  buds,  leaves,  and  flowers  of  the  plant. 

This  power  is  not  yet  properly  defined,  or  explained  ;  and  referred 

to  only  incidentally  throughout  the  eighth  chapter  94-97 

II.  The  Leaf-Stalk  (Cymba)  sustains,  and  expands  itself  into, 
the  Leaf   94,  95 

It  is  essentially  furrowed  above,  and  convex  below   95 

It  is  to  be  called  in  Latin,  the  Cymba  ;  in  English,  the  Leaf-Stalk  95 

III.  The  Flower-stalk  (Petiolus)  : 

It  is  essentially  round   92 

It  is  usually  separated  distinctly  at  its  termination  from  the 

flower  92,  93 

It  is  to  be  called  in  Latin,  Petiolus  ;  in  English,  Flower-stalk  

These  three  are  the  essential  parts  of  a  stem.    But  besides  these,  it 
has,  when  largely  developed,  a  permanent  form  :  namely, 

IV.  The  Trunk. — A  non-advancing  mass  of  collected  stem,  ar- 
rested at  a  given  height  from  the  ground   98 

The  stems  of  annual  plants  are  either  leafy,  as  of  a  thistle, 
or  bare,  sustaining  the  flower  or  flower-cluster  at  a  certain 
height  above  the  ground.  Receiving  therefore  these  follow- 
ing names :  — 

V.  The  Virga. — The  leafy  stem  of  an  annual  plant,  not  a 
grass,  yet  growing  upright   104 

VI.  The  Virgula. — The  leafless  flower-stem  of  an  annual  plant, 

not  a  grass,  as  of  a  primrose  or  dandelion   104 


236 


INDEX. 


VII.  The  Filtjm. — The  running  stem  of  a  creeping  plant. 

It  is  not  specified  in  the^text  for  use  ;  but  will  be  necessary  ; 
so  also,  perhaps,  the  Stelechos,  or  stalk  proper  (26,  p.  104)  the 
branched  stem  of  an  annual  plant,  not  a  grass  ;  one  cannot 
well  talk  of  the  Virga  of  hemlock.  The  1  Stolon '  is  explained 
in  its  classical  sense  at  page  100,  but  I  believe  botanists  use 
\t  otherwise.  I  shall  have  occasion  to  refer  to,  and  complete 
its  explanation,  in  speaking  of  bulbous  plants. 

VIII.  The  Caudex. — The  essentially  ligneous  and  compact  part  of 

astern   105 

This  equivocal  word  is  not  specified  for  use  in  the  text,  but 
I  mean  to  keep  it  for  the  accumulated  stems  of  inlaid  plants, 
palms,  and  the  like  ;  for  which  otherwise  we  have  no  sepa- 
rate term. 

IX.  The  Avena. — Not  specified  in  the  text  at  all ;  but  it  will  be 
prettier  than  1  baculus,'  which  is  that  I  had  proposed,  for 
the  1  staff'  of  grasses.    See  page  113. 

These  ten  names  are  all  that  the  student  need  remember ; 
but  he  will  find  some  interesting  particulars  respecting  the 
following  three,  noticed  in  the  text :  — 

Stips. — The  origin  of  stipend,  stupid,  and  stump   104 

Stipula. — The  subtlest  Latin  term  for  straw   104 

Caulis  (Kale). — The  peculiar  stem  of  branched  eatable  vegetables  105 

Canna. — Not  noticed  in  the  text ;  but  likely  to  be  sometimes  use- 
ful for  the  stronger  stems  of  grasses. 


III.  The  Leaf. 

Derivation  of  word  e   22 

The  Latin  form  *  folium '   32 

The  Greek  form  '  petalos  '   33 

Veins  and  ribs  of  leaves,  to  be  usually  summed  under  the  term  *  rib '  34 

Chemistry  of  leaves   30 


The  nomenclature  of  the  leaf  consists,  in  botanical  books, 
of  little  more  than  barbarous,  and,  for  the  general  reader,  to- 
tally useless  attempts  to  describe  their  forms  in  Latin.  But 


INDEX. 


237 


their  forms  are  infinite  and  indescribable  except  by  the  pen- 
cil. I  will  give  central  types  of  form  in  the  next  volume  of 
Proserpina ;  which,  so  that  the  reader  sees  and  remembers, 
he  may  coll  anything  he  likes  But  it  is  necessary  that 
names  should  be  assigned  to  certain  classes  of  leaves  which 
are  essentially  different  from  each  other  in  character  and  tis- 
sue, not  merely  in  form.  Of  these  the  two  main  divisions 
have  been  already  given  :  but  I  will  now  add  the  less  impor- 
tant ones  which  yet  require  distinct  names. 

I.  Apolline. — Typically  represented  by  the  laurel   39 

II.  Arethusan. — Represented  by  the  alisma   40 

It  ought  to  have  been  noticed  that  the  character  of  serra- 
tion, within  reserved  limits,  is  essential  to  an  Apolline  leaf, 
and  absolutely  refused  by  an  Arethusan  one. 

III.  Dryad. — Of  the  ordinary  leaf  tissue,  neither  manifestly 
strong,  nor  admirably  tender,  but  serviceably  consistent, 
which  we  find  generally  to  be  the  substance  of  the  leaves  of 
forest  trees.    Typically  represented  by  those  of  the  oak. 

IV.  Abietine.-— Shaft  or  sword-shape,  as  the  leaves  of  firs  and 
pines. 

V.  Cressic. — Delicate  and  light,  with  smooth  tissue,  as  the 
leaves  of  cresses,  and  clover. 

VI.  Salvian. — Soft  and  woolly,  like  miniature  blankets,  easily 
folded,  as  the  leaves  of  sage. 

VII.  Catjline. — Softly  succulent,  with  thick  central  ribs,  as  of 
the  cabbage. 

VIII.  Aloeine. — Inflexibly  succulent,  as  of  the  aloe  or  houseleek. 

No  rigid  application  of  these  terms  must  ever  be  attempt- 
ed ;  but  they  direct  the  attention  to  important  general  condi- 


tions, and  will  often  be  found  to  save  time  and  trouble  in 
description. 

IV.  The  Flower. 

Its  general  nature  and  function   49 

Consists  essentially  of  Corolla  and  Treasury   58 

Has  in  perfect  form  the  following  parts  :  — 

I.  The  Torus. —Not  yet  enough  described  in  the  text.  It  is 
the  expansion  of  the  extremity  of  the  flower  stalk,  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  support  of  the  expanding  flower  50-154 


238 


INDEX. 


pAoa 

II.  The  Involucrum. — Any  kind  of  wrapping  or  propping  con- 
dition of  leafage  at  $he  base  of  a  flower  may  properly  come 
under  this  head  ;  but  the  manner  of  prop  or  protection  dif- 
fers in  different  kinds,  and  I  will  not  at  present  give  generic 
names  to  these  peculiar  forms. 

III.  The  Calyx  (The  Hiding-place).— The  outer  whorl  of  leaves, 
under  the  protection  of  which  the  real  flower  is  brought  to 
maturity.    Its  separate  leaves  are  called  Sepals   59 

IV.  The  Corolla  (The  Cup). — The  inner  whorl  of  leaves,  form- 
ing the  flower  itself.    Its  separate  leaves  are  called  Petals  .  53 

V.  The  Treasury. — The  part  of  the  flower  that  contains  its 
seeds. 

VI.  The  Pillar. — The  part  of  the  flower  above  its  treasury,  by 

which  the  power  of  the  pollen  is  carried  down  to  the  seeds . .  58 

It  consists  usually  of  two  parts— the  Shaft  and  Volute  . .  58 

When  the  pillar  is  composed  of  two  or  more  shafts,  attached 
to  separate  treasury-cells,  each  cell  with  its  shaft  is  called  a 
Carpel   162 

VII.  The  Stamens. — The  parts  of  the  flower  which  secrete  its 

pollen   58 

They  consist  usually  of  two  parts,  the  Filament  and  An- 
ther, not  yet  described. 

nil.  The  Nectary. — The  part  of  the  flower  containing  its  honey, 
or  any  other  special  product  of  its  inflorescence.  The  name 
has  often  been  given  to  certain  forms  of  petals  of  which  the 
use  is  not  yet  known.  No  notice  has  yet  been  taken  of  this 
part  of  the  flower  in  Proserpina. 

These  being  all  the  essential  parts  of  the  flower  itself,  other 
forms  and  substances  are  developed  in  the  seed  as  it  ripens, 
which,  I  believe,  may  most  conveniently  be  arranged  in  a 
separate  section,  though  not  logically  to  be  considered  as 
sparable  from  the  flower,  but  only  as  mature  states  of  certain 
parts  oi  *v. 


INDEX. 


239 


V.  The  Seed. 

I  must  once  more  desire  the  reader  to  take  notice  that, 
tinder  the  four  sections  already  defined,  the  morphology  of 
the  plant  is  to  be  considered  as  complete,  and  that  we  are  now 
only  to  examine  and  name,  farther,  its  product ;  and  that  not 
so  much  as  the  germ  of  its  own  future  descendant  flower,  but 
as  a  separate  substance  which  it  is  appointed  to  form,  partly 
to  its  own  detriment,  for  the  sake  of  higher  creatures.  This 
product  consists  essentially  of  two  parts  :  the  Seed  and  its 
Husk. 

PAGE 

I.  The  Seed.— Defined   152 

It  consists,  in  its  perfect  form,  of  three  parts   153 

These  three  parts  are  not  yet  determinately  named  in  the 
text:  but  I  give  now  the  names  which  will  be  usually  at- 
tached to  them. 

A.  The  Sacque.—  The  Outside  skin  of  a  seed   152 

B.  The  Nutrine. — A  word  which  I  coin,  for  general  applicabil- 

ity, whether  to  the  farina  of  corn,  the  substance  of  a  nut, 

or  the  parts  that  become  the  first  leaves  in  a  bean   152 

C.  The  Germ.— The  origin  of  the  root  152 

II.  The  Husk.— Defined   153 

Consists,  like  the  seed  when  in  perfect  form,  of  three 
parts. 

A.  Tlie  Skin. — The  outer  envelope  of  all  the  seed  structures  . .  158 

B.  The  Bind.—  The  central  body  of  the  Husk  153-162 

C.  The  SJiell. — Not  always  shelly,  yet  best  described  by  this 

general  term  ;  and  becoming  a  shell,  so  called,  in  nuts, 
peaches,  dates,  and  other  such  kernel-fruits   153 

The  products  of  the  Seed  and  Husk  of  Plants,  for  the  use 
of  animals,  are  practically  to  be  massed  under  the  three  heads 
of  Bread,  Oil,  and  Fruit,  But  the  substance  of  which  bread 
is  made  is  more  accurately  described  as  Farina  ;  and  the 


240 


INDEX. 


pleasantness  of  fruit  to  the  taste  depends  on  two  elements  in 
its  substance  :  the  juice,  and  the  pulp  containing  it,  which 
may  properly  be  called  Nectar  and  Ambrosia.  We  have  there- 
fore in  all  four  essential  products  of  the  Seed  and  Husk — 

A.  Farina.  Flour   156 

B.  Oleum.  Oil   158 

C.  Nectar.  Fruit-juice   158 

D.  Ambrosia.       Fruit-substance   158 

Besides  these  all-important  products  of  the  seed,  others  are 
formed  in  the  stems  and  leaves  of  plants,  of  which  no  ac- 
count hitherto  has  been  given  in  Proserpina.  I  delay  any  ex- 
tended description  of  these  until  we  have  examined  the  struct- 
ure of  wood  itself  more  closely  ;  this  intricate  and  difficult 
task  having  been  remitted  (p.  122)  to  the  days  of  coming 
spring  ;  and  I  am  well  pleased  that  m^  younger  readers  should 
at  first  be  vexed  with  no  more  names  to  be  learned  than  those 
of  the  vegetable  productions  with  which  they  are  most  pleas- 
antly acquainted :  but  for  older  ones,  I  think  it  well,  before 
closing  the  present  volume,  to  indicate,  with  warning,  some 
of  the  obscurities,  and  probable  fallacies,  with  which  this 
vanity  of  science  encumbers  the  chemistry,  no  less  than  the 
morphology,  of  plants. 

Looking  back  to  one  of  the  first  books  in  which  our  new 
knowledge  of  organic  chemistry  began  to  be  displayed,  thirty 
years  ago,  I  find  that  even  at  that  period  the  organic  elements 
which  the  cuisine  of  the  laboratory  had  already  detected  in 
simple  Indigo,  were  the  following : — 


Isatine, 
Bromisatine, 
Bibromisatine ; 
Chlorisatine, 
Bichlorisatine ; 
Chlorisatyde, 
Biclilorisatyde ; 


Chlorindine, 
Clilorindoptene, 
Chlorindatmit ; 
Chloranile, 
Chloranilam,  and, 
Chloranilammoa. 


INDEX. 


241 


And  yet,  with  all  this  practical  skill  in  decoction,  and  accu- 
mulative industry  in  observation  and  nomenclature,  so  far  are 
our  scientific  men  from  arriving,  by  any  decoctive  process  of 
their  own  knowledge,  at  general  results  useful  to  ordinary 
human  creatures,  that  when  I  wish  now  to  separate,  for  young 
scholars,  in  first  massive  arrangement  of  vegetable  productions, 
the  Substances  of  Plants  from  their  Essences  ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  weighable  and  measurable  body  of  the  plant  from  its 
practically  immeasurable,  if  not  imponderable,  spirit,  I  find 
in  my  three  volumes  of  close-printed  chemistry,  no  informa- 
tion whatever  respecting  the  quality  of  volatility  in  matter, 
except  this  one  sentence  : — 

"The  disposition  of  various  substances  to  yield  vapour  is 
very  different :  and  the  difference  depends  doubtless  on  the 
relative  power  of  cohesion  with  which  they  are  endowed. "  * 

Even  in  this  not  extremely  pregnant,  though  extremely  cau- 
tious, sentence,  two  conditions  of  matter  are  confused,  no 
notice  being  taken  of  the  difference  in  manner  of  dissolution 
between  a  vitally  fragrant  and  a  mortally  putrid  substance. 

It  is  still  more  curious  that  when  I  look  for  more  definite 
instruction  on  such  points  to  the  higher  ranks  of  botanists,  I 
find  in  the  index  to  Dr.  Lindley's  '  Introduction  to  Botany ' 
— seven  hundred  pages  of  close  print — not  one  of  the  four 
words  'Volatile/  'Essence/  'Scent/  or  'Perfume.'  I  examine 
the  index  to  Gray's  '  Structural  and  Systematic  Botany,'  with 
precisely  the  same  success.  I  next  consult  Professors  Balfour 
and  Grindon,  and  am  met  by  the  same  dignified  silence. 
Finally,  I  think  over  the  possible  chances  in  French,  and  try 
in  Siguier's  indices  to  the  '  Histoire  des  Plantes '  for  '  Odeur ' 
— no  such  word  !  '  Parfum ' — no  such  word.  '  Essence ' — no 
such  word.  '  Encens ' — no  such  word.  I  try  at  last  '  Pois  de 
Senteur,'  at  a  venture,  and  am  referred  to  a  page  which  de- 
scribes their  going  to  sleep. 

Left  thus  to  my  own  resources,  I  must  be  content  for  the 
present  to  bring  the  subject  at  least  under  safe  laws  of  nomen- 
clature.  It  is  possible  that  modern  chemistry  may  be  entirely 

*  "Elements  of  Chemistry,"  p.  44.  By  Edward  Turner;  edited  by 
Justus  Liebig  and  William  Gregory.    Taylor  and  Walton,  1840. 


242 


INDEX. 


right  in  alleging  the  absolute  identity  of  substances  such  aa 
albumen,  or  fibrine,  whether  they  occur  in  the  animal  or 
vegetable  economies.  But  I  do  not  choose  to  assume  this 
identity  in  my  nomenclature.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  very  fine 
and  very  instructive  to  inform  the  pupils  preparing  for  com- 
petitive examination  that  the  main  element  of  Milk  is  Milkine, 
and  of  Cheese,  Cheesine.  But  for  the  practical  purposes  of 
life,  all  that  I  think  it  necessary  for  the  pupil  to  know  is  that 
in  order  to  get  either  milk  or  cheese,  he  must  address  himself 
to  a  Cow,  and  not  to  a  Pump  ;  and  that  what  a  chemist  can 
produce  for  him  out  of  dandelions  or  cocoanuts,  however 
milky  or  cheesy  it  may  look,  may  more  safely  be  called  by 
some  name  of  its  own. 

This  distinctness  of  language  becomes  every  day  more  desir- 
able, in  the  face  of  the  refinements  of  chemical  art  which  now 
enable  the  ingenious  confectioner  to  meet  the  demands  of  an 
unscientific  person  for  (suppose)  a  lemon  drop,  with  a  mixture 
of  nitric  acid,  sulphur,  and  stewed  bones.  It  is  better,  what- 
ever the  chemical  identity  of  the  products  may  be,  that  each 
should  receive  a  distinctive  epithet,  and  be  asked  for  and  sup- 
plied, in  vulgar  English,  and  vulgar  probity,  either  as  essence 
of  lemons,  or  skeletons. 

I  intend,  therefore, — and  believe  that  the  practice  will  be 
found  both  wise  and  convenient, — to  separate  in  all  my  works 
on  natural  history  the  terms  used  for  vegetable  products  from 
those  used  for  animal  or  mineral  ones,  whatever  may  be  their 
chemical  identity,  or  resemblance  in  aspect.  I  do  not  mean 
to  talk  of  fat  in  seeds,  nor  of  flour  in  eggs,  nor  of  milk  in 
rocks.  Pace  my  prelatical  friends,  I  mean  to  use  the  word 
'  Alb  '  for  vegetable  albumen  ;  and  although  I  cannot  without 
pedantry  avoid  using  sometimes  the  word  '  milky '  of  the  white 
juices  of  plants,  I  must  beg  the  reader  to  remain  unaffected 
in  his  conviction  that  there  is  a  vital  difference  between  liquids 
that  coagulate  into  butter,  or  congeal  into  India-rubber.  Oil, 
when  used  simply,  will  always  mean  a  vegetable  product ;  and 
when  I  have  occasion  to  speak  of  petroleum,  tallow,  or  blub- 
ber,  I  shall  generally  call  these  substances  by  their  right 
names. 


INDEX. 


243 


There  are  also  a  certain  number  of  vegetable  materials  more 
or  less  prepared,  secreted,  or  digested  for  us  by  animals,  such 
as  wax,  honey,  silk,  and  cochineal.  The  properties  of  these 
require  more  complex  definitions,  but  they  have  all  very  intel- 
ligible and  well-established  names.  \  Tea '  must  be  a  general 
term  for  an  extract  of  any  plant  in  boiling  water:  though  when 
standing  alone  the  word  will  take  its  accepted  Chinese  mean- 
ing :  and  essence,  the  general  term  for  the  condensed  dew  of 
a  vegetable  vapour,  which  is  with  grace  and  fitness  called  the 
'  being '  of  a  plant,  because  its  properties  are  almost  always 
characteristic  of  the  species  ;  and  it  is  not,  like  leaf  tissue  or 
wood  fibre,  approximately  the  same  material  in  different 
shapes ;  but  a  separate  element  in  each  family  of  flowers,  of  a 
mysterious,  delightful,  or  dangerous  influence,  logically  inex- 
plicable, chemically  inconstructible,  and  wholly,  in  dignity  of 
nature,  above  all  modes  and  faculties  of  form. 


INDEX  II. 


TO  THE  PLANTS  SPOKEN  OF  IN  THIS  VOLUME,  UNDER  THEIR  ENGLISH 
NAMES,  ACCEPTED  BY  PROSERPINA. 


Apple,  74 
Ash,  85,  90 
Aspen,  94 
Asphodel,  10,  29 

Bay,  39 
Bean,  75 
Bed-straw,  86 
Bindweed,  102 
Birch,  120 
Blackthorn,  85,  90 
Blaeberry,  40,  143 
Bluebell,  102 
Bramble,  85,  135 
Burdock,  80,  93 
Burnet,  69 
Butterbur,  84 

Cabbage,  93,  105 
Captain-salad,  105 
Carrot,  26,  29 
Cauliflower,  93,  105 
Cedar,  29,  46,  81, 
Celandine,  54 
Cherry,  49,  92 
Chestnut,  47 

"       Spanish,  117 
Chicory,  84 
Clover,  80 
Colewort,  105 
Coltsfoot,  79 
Corn-cockle,  78 
Corn-flag,  76,  78 


Cowslip,  98 
Crocus,  29,  30 

Daffodil,  10 
Daisy,  83,  102, 145 
Dandelion,  83 
Devil  s  Bit,  104 
Dock,  93 

Elm,  40 

Fig,  48 
Flag,  76 
Flax,  116 
Foils,  Rock,  102 

Roof,  102,  103 
Foxglove,  70,  84,  98 
Frog-flower,  43 

Grape,  74,  92 

Grass,  40,  41,  42,  111,  113,  114, 
115 

Hawk's-eye,  84 
Hazel,  85 

Heath,  50,  51,  77,  144 
Hemlock,  77 
Herb-Robert,  86 
Holly,  81,  85 
Houseleek,  30,  103 
Hyacinth,  49,  50 

Ivy,  80 

Jacinth,  61,  129 


INDEX. 


2io 


King-cup,  79 

Laurel,  35,  45,  99 

"     leaves,  34,  39,  46 
Lichen,  122 
Lilac,  56 

Lily,  5,  29,  40,  75,  78 
Lily,  St.  Bruno's,  5,  10,  11 
Lily  of  the  Valley,  101 
Lily,  Water,  42,  54 
Ling,  51,  52 
Lion's-tooth,  81 
Liquorice,  31 
Lucy,  79,  102 

Mistletoe,  80 
Moss,  13,  15,  122 
Mushroom,  34,  90 
Myrtle,  39 

Nettle,  40,  64,  77 
Nightshade,  78 

Oak,  29,  99 

"    blossoms,  50 
Olive,  39,  48,  10C 
Onion,  31 
Orange,  39 

Pseony,  91 

Palm,  34,  40,  54,  74,  156,  116 

Pansy,  120,  102 

Papilionaceae,  102 

Papyrus,  116 

Pea,  27,  102 

Peach,  92,  102 

Pine,  99 

Pineapple,  15 

Pink,  102 

Plantain,  95 

Pomegranate,  74 

Poplar,  40 


Poppy,  52,  56,  63,  73 
Primrose,  59,  102 

Radish,  28,  31 

Ragged  Robin,  109 

Rhubarb,  92 

Rice,  40 

Rock-foil,  102 

Roof-foil,  102,  103 

Rose,  48,  52,  56,  75,  78,  85.  86 

91,  102 
Rush,  110 

Saxifrage,  85,  101 ,  103 
Scabious.  104 
Sedum,  103 
Sorrel- wood,  11 
Spider  Plant,  10 
Sponsa  solis,  84 
Stella,  102,  103 

"     domestica,  103 
Stonecrop,  103 
Sweetbrier,  79 

Thistle,  75,  81,  83, 84, 86, 103  note, 

107  note. 
Thistle,  Creeping,  97 

"     Waste,  108 
Thorns,  86,  90 

"     Black,  85,  90 
Thyme,  84 
Tobacco,  31,  78 
Tormentilla,  79 
Turnip,  29 

Vine,  75,  78,  99,  100 
Viola,  102 

Wallflower,  80 
Wheat,  90,  116 
Wreathewort,  121 


INDEX  III. 


TO  THE  PLANTS  SPOKEN  OP  IN  THIS  VOLUME,  UNDER  THEIR  LATIN  OR 
GREEK  NAMES,  ACCEPTED  BY  PROSERPINA. 


Acanthus,  75 

Geranium,  61,  86 

Alata,  102 

Gladiolus,  75,  78,  115 

Alisma,  40 

Amaryllis,  29,  30 

Myacinthus,  l^y 

Anemone,  78 

Hypnum,  13 

AvfPTYllflp^      1  i\d 

Iris,  29,  74 

Aurora,  143 

Lilium  (see  Lily),  10 

Azalea,  143 

jjucia,  <y,  io& 

Pontile  3'-i 

i^actus,  oo 

magnolia,  ovj 

Campanula,  102 

Margarita,  \\36 

Carduus,  97 

Myrtilla,  142 

Charites,  131 

Narcissus,  78 

Cistus,  52 

Clarissa,  102,  109 

Ophrys,  125 

Contorta,  121 

Papaver,  66,  70 

Convoluta,  102 

Persica,  102 

Cyclamen,  27 

Pomum,  131 

Primula,  101 

Drosidse,  29,  138 

Rosa,  102 

EnsataB,  141 

Rubra,  131,  136 

Erica?,  11,  142 

Eryngo,  61 

Satyrium,  126 

Stella,  102,  103 

Fragaria,  131 

Francesca,  102,  103 

Veronica,  56 

Frarinus,  135 

Viola,  103 

ARIADNE  FLORENTINA 


SIX  LECTURES 

ON 

WOOD  AND  METAL  ENGRAVING 

WITH  APPENDIX 

5IVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD  IN  MICHAELMAS 
TERM,  1S72 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


SIX  LECTURES 

ON 

WOOD    AND    METAL  ENGRAVING, 


LECTURE  I. 

DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRAVING. 

1.  The  entrance  on  my  duty  for  to-day  begins  the  fourth 
year  of  my  official  work  in  Oxford  ;  and  I  doubt  not  that 
some  of  my  audience  are  asking  themselves,  very  doubtfully 
— at  all  events,  I  ask  myself,  very  anxiously — what  has  been 
done. 

For  practical  result,  I  have  not  much  to  show.  I  an- 
nounced, a  fortnight  since,  that  I  would  meet,  the  day  before 
yesterday,  any  gentleman  who  wished  to  attend  this  course 
for  purposes  of  study.  My  class,  so  minded,  numbers  four, 
of  whom  three  wish  to  be  artists,  and  ought  not  therefore,  by 
rights,  to  be  at  Oxford  at  all ;  and  the  fourth  is  the  last  re- 
maining unit  of  the  class  I  had  last  year. 

2.  Yet  I  neither  in  this  reproach  myself,  nor,  if  I  could, 
would  I  reproach  the  students  who  are  not  here.  I  do  not 
reproach  myself  ;  for  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  attend  prop- 
erly to  the  schools  and  to  write  the  grammar  for  them  at  the 
same  time ;  and  I  do  not  blame  the  absent  students  for  not 
attending  a  school  from  which  I  have  generally  been  absent 


250 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


myself.  In  all  this,  there  is  much  to  be  mended,  but,  in  true 
light,  nothing  to  be  regretted. 

I  say,  I  had  to  write  my  school  grammar.  These  three 
volumes  of  lectures  under  my  hand,*  contain  carefully  set 
down,  the  things  I  want  you  first  to  know.  None  of  my 
writings  are  done  fluently  ;  the  second  volume  of  Modern 
Painters  was  all  of  it  written  twice — most  of  it,  four  times, 
— over ;  and  these  lectures  have  been  written,  I  don't  know 
how  many  times.  You  may  think  that  this  was  done  merely 
in  an  author's  vanity,  not  in  a  tutor's  care.  To  the  vanity  I 
plead  guilty, — no  man  is  more  intensely  vain  than  I  am  ;  but 
my  vanity  is  set  on  having  it  known  of  me  that  I  am  a  good 
master,  not  in  having  it  said  of  me  that  I  am  a  smooth  author. 
My  vanity  is  never  more  wounded  than  in  being  called  a  fine 
writer,  meaning — that  nobody  need  mind  what  I  say. 

3.  Well,  then,  besides  this  vanity,  I  have  some  solicitude 
for  your  progress.  You  may  give  me  credit  for  it  or  not,  as 
you  choose,  but  it  is  sincere.  And  that  your  advance  may  be 
safe,  I  have  taken  the  best  pains  I  could  in  laying  down  laws 
for  it.  In  these  three  years  I  have  got  my  grammar  written, 
and,  with  the  help  of  many  friends,  all  working  instruments 
in  good  order  ;  and  now  we  will  try  what  we  can  do.  Not 
that,  even  now,  you  are  to  depend  on  my  presence  with  you 
in  personal  teaching.  I  shall  henceforward  think  of  the  lect- 
ures less,  of  the  schools  more ;  but  my  best  work  for  the 
schools  will  often  be  by  drawing  in  Florence  or  in  Lancashire 
— not  here. 

4.  I  have  already  told  you  several  times  that  the  course 
through  which  I  mean  every  student  in  these  schools  should 
pass,  is  one  which  shall  enable  them  to  understand  the  ele- 
mentary principles  of  the  finest  art.  It  will  necessarily  be 
severe,  and  seem  to  lead  to  no  immediate  result.  Some  of 
you  wTill,  on  the  contrary,  wish  to  be  taught  what  is  imme- 
diately easy,  and  gives  prospect  of  a  manifest  success. 

But  suppose  they  should  come  to  the  Professor  of  Logic 
and  Rhetoric,  and  tell  him  they  wanted  to  be  taught  to  preach 

like  Mr.  Spurgeon,  or  the  Bishop  of  . 

*  Inaugural  series,  Aratra  Pentelici,  and  Eagle's  Nest. 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRAVING.  251 


He  would  say  to  them, — I  cannot,  and  if  I  could  I  would 
not,  tell  you  how  to  preach  like  Mr.  Spurgeon,  or  the  Bishop 

of  .    Your  own  character  will  form  your  style  ;  your  own 

zeal  will  direct  it  ;  your  own  obstinacy  or  ignorance  may 
limit  or  exaggerate  it ;  but  my  business  is  to  prevent,  as  far 
as  I  can,  your  having  any  particular  style  ;  and  to  teach  you 
the  laws  of  all  language,  and  the  essential  power  of  your 
own. 

In  like  manner,  this  course,  which  I  propose  to  you  in  art, 
will  be  calculated  only  to  give  you  judgment  and  method  in 
future  study,  to  establish  to  your  conviction  the  laws  of  gen- 
eral art,  and  to  enable  you  to  draw,  if  not  with  genius,  at 
least  with  sense  and  propriety. 

The  course,  so  far  as  it  consists  in  practice,  will  be  defined 
in  my  Instructions  for  the  schools.  And  the  theory  connected 
with  that  practice  is  set  down  in  the  three  lectures  at  the  end 
of  the  first  course  I  delivered — those  on  Line,  Light,  and 
Colour. 

You  will  have,  therefore,  to  get  this  book,*  and  it  is  the 
only  one  which  you  will  need  to  have  of  your  own, — the 
others  are  placed,  for  reference,  where  they  will  be  accessible 
to  you. 

5.  In  the  139th  paragraph,  p.  132,  it  states  the  order  of 
your  practical  study  in  these  terms  : 

"  I  wish  you  to  begin  by  getting  command  of  line  ; — that  is 
to  say,  by  learning  to  draw  a  steady  line,  limiting  with  ab- 
solute correctness  the  form  or  space  you  intend  it  to  limit ; 
to  proceed  by  getting  command  over  flat  tints,  so  that  you 
may  be  able  to  fill  the  spaces  you  have  enclosed  evenly,  either 
with  shade  or  colour,  according  to  the  school  you  adopt  ; 
and,  finally,  to  obtain  the  power  of  adding  such  fineness  of 
drawing,  within  the  masses,  as  shall  express  their  undulation, 
and  their  characters  of  form  and  texture." 

And  now,  since  in  your  course  of  practice  you  are  first  re- 
quired to  attain  the  power  of  drawing  lines  accurately  and 
delicately,  so  in  the  course  of  theory,  or  grammar,  I  wish  you 

*  My  inaugural  series  of  seven  lectures,  published  at  the  Clarendon 
Press. 


252 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


first  to  learn  the  principles  of  linear  design,  exemplified  by 
the  schools  which  at  the  top  of  page  130  you  will  find  charac- 
terized as  the  Schools  of  Line. 

6.  If  I  had  command  of  as  much  time  as  I  should  like  to 
spend  with  you  on  this  subject,  I  would  begin  with  the  early 
forms  of  art  which  used  the  simplest  linear  elements  of  design. 
But,  for  general  service  aud  interest,  it  will  be  better  that  I 
should  sketch  what  has  been  accomplished  by  the  greatest 
masters  in  that  manner  ;  the  rather  that  their  work  is  more  or 
less  accessible  to  all,  and  has  developed  into  the  vast  indus- 
tries of  modern  engraving,  one  of  the  most  powerful  existing 
influences  of  education  and  sources  of  pleasure  among  civil- 
ized people. 

And  this  investigation,  so  far  from  interrupting,  will  facili- 
tate our  examination  of  the  history  of  the  nobler  arts.  You 
will  see  in  the  preface  to  my  lectures  on  Greek  sculpture  that 
I  intend  them  to  be  followed  by  a  course  on  architecture,  and 
that  by  one  on  Florentine  sculpture.  But  the  art  of  engraving 
is  so  manifestly,  at  Florence,  though  not  less  essentially  else 
where,  a  basis  of  style  both  in  architecture  and  sculpture,  that 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  I  should  explain  to  you  in  what  the 
skill  of  the  engraver  consists,  before  I  can  define  with  accu- 
racy that  of  more  admired  artists.  For  engraving,  though 
not  altogether  in  the  method  of  which  you  see  examples  in 
the  print-shops  of  the  High  Street,  is,  indeed,  a  prior  art  to 
that  either  of  building  or  sculpture,  and  is  an  inseparable  part 
of  both,  when  they  are  rightly  practised. 

7.  And  while  we  thus  examine  the  scope  of  this  first  of  the 
arts,  it  will  be  necessary  that  we  learn  also  the  scope  of  mind 
of  the  early  practisers  of  it,  and  accordingly  acquaint  our- 
selves with  the  main  events  in  the  biography  of  the  schools  of 
Florence.  To  understand  the  temper  and  meaning  of  one 
great  master  is  to  lay  the  best,  if  not  the  only,  foundation  for 
the  understanding  of  all  ;  and  I  shall  therefore  make  it  the 
leading  aim  of  this  course  of  lectures  to  remind  you  of  what 
is  known,  and  direct  you  to  what  is  knowable,  of  the  life  and 
character  of  the  greatest  Florentine  master  of  engraving, 
Sandro  Botticelli ;  and,  incidentally,  to  give  you  some  idea  of 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  AllT  OF  ENGRAVING.  253 


the  power  of  the  greatest  master  of  the  German,  or  any  north- 
ern, school,  Hans  Holbein. 

8.  You  must  feel,  however,  that  I  am  using  the  word  "  en- 
graving "  in  a  somewhat  different,  and,  you  may  imagine,  a 
wider,  sense,  than  that  which  you  are  accustomed  to  attach  to 
it.  So  far  from  being  a  wider  sense,  it  is  in  reality  a  more 
accurate  and  restricted  one,  while  yet  it  embraces  every  con- 
ceivable right  application  of  the  art.  And  I  wish,  in  this  first 
lecture,  to  make  entirely  clear  to  you  the  proper  meaning  of 
the  word,  and  proper  range  of  the  art  of,  engraving  ;  in  my 
next  following  lecture,  to  show  you  its  place  in  Italian  schools, 
and  then,  in  due  order,  the  place  it  ought  to  take  in  our  own, 
and  in  all  schools. 

9.  First  then,  to-day,  of  the  Differentia,  or  essential  quality 
of  Engraving,  as  distinguished  from  other  arts. 

What  answer  would  you  make  to  me,  if  I  asked  casually 
what  engraving  was  ?  Perhaps  the  readiest  which  would  oc- 
cur to  you  would  be,  "  The  translation  of  pictures  into  black 
and  white  by  means  admitting  reduplication  of  impressions." 
But  if  that  be  done  by  lithography,  we  do  not  call  it  engrav- 
ing,— whereas  we  speak  contentedly  and  continually  of  seal 
engraving,  in  which  there  is  no  question  of  black  and  white. 
And,  as  scholars,  you  know  that  this  customary  mode  of  speak- 
ing is  quite  accurate  ;  and  that  engraving  means,  primarily, 
making  a  permanent  cut  or  furrow  in  something.  The  cen- 
tral syllable  of  the  word  has  become  a  sorrowful  one,  meaning 
the  most  permanent  of  furrows. 

10.  But  are  you  prepared  absolutely  to  accept  this  limita- 
tion with  respect  to  engraving  as  a  pictorial  art  ?  "Will  you 
call  nothing  an  engraving,  except  a  group  of  furrows  or  cavi- 
ties cut  in  a  hard  substance  ?  What  shall  we  say  of  mezzo- 
tint engraving,  for  instance,  in  which,  though  indeed  furrows 
and  cavities  are  produced  mechanically  as  a  ground,  the 
artist's  work  is  in  effacing  them  ?  And  when  we  consider  the 
power  of  engraving  in  representing  pictures  and  multiplying 
them,  are  we  to  recognize  and  admire  no  effects  of  light  and 
shade  except  those  which  are  visibly  produced  by  dots  or 
furrows  ?    I  mean,  will  the  virtue  of  an  engraving  be  in  ex- 


251 


ARIADNE  FL  OR  EN  TIN  A. 


hibiting  these  imperfect  means  of  its  effect,  or  in  concealing 

them  ? 

11.  Here,  for  instance,  is  the  head  of  a  soldier  by  Durer, — 
a  mere  gridiron  of  black  lines.  Would  this  be  better  or 
worse  engraving  if  it  were  more  like  a  photograph  or  litho- 
graph, and  no  lines  seen? — suppose,  more  like  the  head  of 
Mr.  Santley,  now  in  all  the  music-shops,  and  really  quite  de- 
ceptive in  light  and  shade,  when  seen  from  over  the  way  ? 
Do  you  think  Durer's  work  would  be  better  if  it  were  more 
like  that  ?  And  would  you  have  me,  therefore,  leaving  the 
question  of  technical  method  of  production  altogether  to  the 
craftsman,  consider  pictorial  engraving  simply  as  the  produc- 
tion of  a  light-and-shade  drawing,  by  some  method  permitting 
its  multiplication  for  the  public  ? 

12.  This,  you  observe,  is  a  very  practical  question  indeed. 
For  instance,  the  illustrations  of  my  own  lectures  on  sculpture 
are  equivalent  to  permanent  photographs.  There  can  be  little 
doubt  that  means  will  be  discovered  of  thus  producing  perfect 
facsimiles  of  artists'  drawings ;  so  that,  if  no  more  than  fac- 
simile be  required,  the  old  art  of  cutting  furrows  in  metal 
may  be  considered  as,  at  this  day,  virtually  ended.  And,  in- 
deed, it  is  said  that  line  engravers  cannot  any  more  get  ap- 
prentices, and  that  a  pure  steel  or  copper  plate  is  not  likely 
to  be  again  produced,  when  once  the  old  living  masters  of  the 
bright  field  shall  have  been  all  laid  in  their  earth-furrows. 

13.  Suppose,  then,  that  this  come  to  pass ;  and  more  than 
this,  suppose  that  wood  engraving  also  be  superseded,  and 
that  instead  of  imperfect  transcripts  of  drawings,  on  wood- 
blocks or  metal-plates,  photography  enabled  us  to  give,  quite 
cheaply,  and  without  limit  to  number  facsimiles  of  the  fin- 
ished light-and-shade  drawings  of  artists  themselves.  Another 
group  of  questions  instantly  offers  itself,  on  these  new  condi- 
tions ;  namely,  What  are  the  best  means  for  a  light-and-shade 
drawing — the  pen,  or  the  pencil,  the  charcoal,  or  the  flat 
wash  ?  That  is  to  say,  the  pen,  producing  shade  by  black 
lines,  as  old  engraving  did  ;  the  pencil,  producing  shade  by 
grey  lines,  variable  in  force  ;  the  charcoal,  producing  a  smoky 
shadow  with  no  lines  in  it,  or  the  washed  tint,  producing  a 


DEFINITION-  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENQRA  VING.  255 


transparent  shadow  with  no  lines  in  it.  Which  of  these 
methods  is  the  best  ? — or  have  they,  each  and  all,  virtues  to 
be  separately  studied,  and  distinctively  applied  ? 

14.  See  how  curiously  the  questions  multiply  on  us.  1st, 
Is  engraving  to  be  only  considered  as  cut  work  ?  2nd,  For 
present  designs  multipliable  without  cutting,  by  the  sunshine, 
what  methods  or  instruments  of  drawing  will  be  best  ?  And 
now,  3rdly,  before  we  can  discuss  these  questions  at  all,  is 
there  not  another  lying  at  the  root  of  both, — namely,  what  a 
light- and-shade  drawing  itself  properly  is,  .and  how  it  differs, 
or  should  differ,  from  a  painting, — whether  by  mere  defi- 
ciency, or  by  some  entirely  distinct  merit  ? 

15.  For  instance,  you  know  how  confklently  it  is  said,  in 
common  talk  about  Turner,  that  his  works  are  intelligible 
and  beautiful  when  engraved,  though  incomprehensible  as 
paintings.  Admitting  this  to  be  so,  do  you  suppose  it  is  be- 
cause the  translation  into  light  and  shade  is  deficient  in  some 
qualities  which  the  painting  had,  or  that  it  possesses  some  qual- 
ity which  the  painting  had  not  ?  Does  it  please  more  because 
it  is  deficient  in  the  colour  which  confused  a  feeble  spectator, 
and  offended  a  dogmatic  one, — or  because  it  possesses  a  deci- 
sion in  its  steady  linear  labour  which  interprets,  or  corrects, 
the  swift  pencilling  of  the  artist  ? 

16.  Do  you  notice  the  two  words  I  have  just  used,  Decision, 
and  Linear  ? — Decision,  again  introducing  the  idea  of  cuts  or 
divisions,  as  opposed  to  gradations  ;  Linear,  as  opposed  to 
massive  or  broad  ? 

Yet  we  use  all  these  words  at  different  times  in  praise, 
while  they  evidently  mark  inconsistent  qualities.  Softness 
and  decision,  breadth  and  delineation,  cannot  co-exist  in  equal 
degrees.  There  must  surely  therefore  be  a  virtue  in  the  en- 
graving inconsistent  with  that  of  the  painting,  and  vice  versa*. 

Nowr,  be  clear  about  these  three  questions  which  we  have 
to-day  to  answer. 

A.  Is  all  engraving  to  be  cut  work  ? 

B.  If  it  need  not  be  cut  work,  but  only  the  reproduction 

of  a  drawing,  what  methods  of  executing  a  light-and- 
shade  drawing  will  be  best  ? 


256 


ARIADNE  FL0BENT1NA. 


C.  Is  the  shaded  drawing  itself  to  be  considered  only  as  a 
deficient  or  imperfect  painting,  or  as  a  different  thing 
from  a  painting,  having  a  virtue  of  its  own,  belonging 
to  black  and  white,  as  opposed  to  colour  ? 

17.  I  will  give  you  the  answers  at  once,  briefly,  and  am- 
plify them  afterwards. 

A.  All  engraving  must  be  cut  work  ; — that  is  its  differentia. 

Unless  your  effect  be  produced  by  cutttng  into  some 
solid  substance,  it  is  not  engraving  at  all. 

B.  The  proper  methods  for  light-and-shade  drawing  vary 

according  to  subject,  and  the  degree  of  completeness 
desired, — some  of  them  having  much  in  common  with 
engraving,  and  others  with  painting. 

C.  The  qualities  of  a  light-and-shade  drawing  ought  to 

be  entirely  different  from  those  of  a  painting.  It  is 
not  a  deficient  or  partial  representation  of  a  coloured 
scene  or  picture,  but  an  entirely  different  reading  of 
either.  So  that  much  of  what  is  intelligible  in  a  paint- 
ing ought  to  be  unintelligible  in  a  light-and-shade 
study  and  vice  versa. 
You  have  thus  three  arts, — engraving,  light-and-shade  draw- 
ing, and  painting. 

Now  I  am  not  going  to  lecture,  in  this  course,  on  painting, 
nor  on  light-and-shade  drawing,  but  on  engraving  only.  But 
I  must  tell  you  something  about  light-and-shade  drawing 
first ;  or,  at  least,  remind  you  of  what  I  have  before  told. 

18.  You  see  that  the  three  elementary  lectures  in  my  first 
volume  are  on  Line,  Light,  and  Colour, — that  is  to  say,  on 
the  modes  of  art  which  produce  linear  designs, — which  pro- 
duce effects  of  light, — and  which  produce  effects  of  colour. 

I  must,  for  the  sake  of  new  students,  briefly  repeat  the  ex- 
planation of  these. 

Here  is  an  Arabian  vase,  in  which  the  pleasure  given  to  the 
eye  is  only  by  lines  ; — no  effect  of  light,  or  of  colour,  is  at- 
tempted. Here  is  a  moonlight  by  Turner,  in  which  there  are 
no  lines  at  all,  and  no  colours  at  all.  The  pleasure  given  to 
the  eye  is  only  by  modes  of  light  and  shade,  or  effects  of  light. 
Finally,  here  is  an  early  Florentine  painting,  in  which  there  are 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENQ RAVING.  257 


no  lines  of  importance,  and  no  effect  of  light  whatever  ;  but  all 
the  pleasure  given  to  the  eye  is  in  gaiety  and  variety  of  colour. 

19.  I  say,  the  pleasure  given  to  the  eye.  The  lines  on  this 
vase  write  something ;  but  the  ornamentation  produced  by 
the  beautiful  writing  is  independent  of  its  meaning.  So  the 
moonlight  is  pleasant,  first,  as  light ;  and  the  figures,  first,  as 
colour.  It  is  not  the  shape  of  the  waves,  but  the  light  on 
them ;  not  the  expression  of  the  figures,  but  their  colour,  by 
which  the  ocular  pleasure  is  to  be  given. 

These  three  examples  are  violently  marked  ones  ;  but,  in 
preparing  to  draw  any  object,  you  will  find  that,  practically, 
you  have  to  ask  yourself,  Shall  I  aim  at  the  colour  of  it,  the 
light  of  it,  or  the  lines  of  it  ?  You  can't  have  all  three  ;  you 
can't  even  have  any  two  out  of  the  three  in  equal  strength. 
The  best  art,  indeed,  comes  so  near  nature  as  in  a  measure  to 
unite  all.  But  the  best  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  as  good  as 
nature  ;  and  the  mode  of  its  deficiency  is  that  it  must  lose 
some  of  the  colour,  some  of  the  light,  or  some  of  the  delinea- 
tion. And  in  consequence,  there  is  one  great  school  wrhich 
says,  We  wTill  have  the  colour,  and  as  much  light  and  de- 
lineation as  are  consistent  with  it.  Another  which  says,  We 
will  have  shade,  and  as  much  colour  and  delineation  as  are 
consistent  with  it.  The  third,  We  will  have  delineation,  and 
as  much  colour  and  shade  as  are  consistent  with  it. 

20.  And  though  much  of  the  two  subordinate  qualities  may 
in  each  school  be  consistent  with  the  leading  one,  yet  the 
schools  are  evermore  separate  :  as,  for  instance,  in  other  mat- 
ters, one  man  says,  I  will  have  my  fee,  and  as  much  honesty 
as  is  consistent  with  it  ;  another,  I  will  have  my  honesty,  and 
as  much  fee  as  is  consistent  with  it.  Though  the  man  who 
will  have  his  fee  be  subordinately  honest,  — though  the  man 
who  will  have  his  honour,  subordinately  richj  are  they  not 
evermore  of  diverse  schools  ? 

So  you  have,  in  art,  the  utterly  separate  provinces,  though 
in  contact  at  their  borders,  of 

The  Delineators  ; 

The  Chiaroscurists ;  and 

The  Colourists. 


258 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


21.  The  Delineators  are  the  men  on  whom  I  am  going  to 
give  you  this  course  of  lectures.  They  are  essentially  engrav- 
ers, an  engraved  line  being  the  best  means  of  delineation. 
The  Chiaroscurists  are  essentially  draughtsmen  with  chalk, 
charcoal,  or  single  tints.  Many  of  them  paint,  but  always  with 
some  effort  and  pain.  Leonardo  is  the  type  of  them  ;  but  the 
entire  Dutch  school  consists  of  them,  laboriously  painting, 
without  essential  genius  for  colour. 

The  Colourists  are  the  true  painters  ;  and  all  the  faultless 
(as  far,  that  is  to  say,  as  men's  work  can  be  so,)  and  consum- 
mate masters  of  art  belong  to  them. 

22.  The  distinction  between  the  colourist  and  chiaroscurist 
school  is  trenchant  and  absolute  ;  and  may  soon  be  shown  you 
so  that  you  will  never  forget  it.  Here  is  a  Florentine  picture 
by  one  of  the  pupils  of  Giotto,  of  very  good  representative 
quality,  and  which  the  University  galleries  are  rich  in  possess- 
ing. At  the  distance  at  which  I  hold  it,  you  see  nothing  but 
a  chequer-work  of  brilliant,  and,  as  it  happens,  even  glaring 
colours.  If  you  come  near,  you  will  find  this  patchwork  re- 
solve itself  into  a  Visitation,  and  Birth  of  St.  John  ;  but  that 
St.  Elizabeth's  red  dress,  and  the  Virgin's  blue  and  white  one, 
and  the  brown  posts  of  the  door,  and  the  blue  spaces  of  the 
sky,  are  painted  in  their  own  entirely  pure  colours,  each  shaded 
with  more  powerful  tints  of  itself, — pale  blue  with  deep  blue, 
scarlet  with  crimson,  yellow  with  orange,  and  green  with  rich- 
er green. 

The  whole  is  therefore  as  much  a  mosaic  work  of  brilliant 
colour  as  if  it  were  made  of  bits  of  glass.  There  is  no  effect 
of  light  attempted,  or  so  much  as  thought  of  :  you  don't  know 
even  where  the  sun  is ;  nor  have  you  the  least  notion  what 
time  of  day  it  is.  The  painter  thinks  you  cannot  be  so  super- 
fluous as  to  want  to  know  what  time  of  day  it  is. 

23.  Here,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  Dutch  picture  of  good 
average  quality,  also  out  of  the  University  galleries.  It  repre- 
sents a  group  of  cattle,  and  a  herdsman  watching  them.  And 
you  see  in  an  instant  that  the  time  is  evening.  The  sun  is 
setting,  and  there  is  warm  light  on  the  landscape,  the  cattle, 
and  the  standing  figure. 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRAVING.  259 


Nor  does  the  picture  in  any  conspicuous  way  seem  devoid 
of  colour.  On  the  contrary,  the  herdsman  has  a  scarlet  jacket, 
which  comes  out  rather  brilliantly  from  the  mass  of  shade 
round  it  ;  and  a  person  devoid  of  colour  faculty,  or  ill  taught, 
might  imagine  the  picture  to  be  really  a  fine  work  of  colour. 

But  if  you  will  come  up  close  to  it,  you  will  find  that  the 
herdsman  has  brown  sleeves,  though  he  has  a  scarlet  jacket ; 
and  that  the  shadows  of  both  are  painted  with  precisely  the 
same  brown,  and  in  several  places  with  continuous  touches  of 
the  pencil.    It  is  only  in  the  light  that  the  scarlet  is  laid  on. 

This  at  once  marks  the  picture  as  belonging  to  the  lower  or 
chiaroscurist  school,  even  if  you  had  not  before  recognized  it 
as  such  by  its  pretty  rendering  of  sunset  effect. 

24  You  might  at  first  think  it  a  painting  which  showed 
greater  skill  than  that  of  the  school  of  Giotto.  But  the  skill 
is  not  the  primary  question.  The  power  of  imagination  is  the 
first  thing  to  be  asked  about.  This  Italian  work  imagines, 
and  requires  you  to  imagine  also,  a  St.  Elizabeth  and  St.  Mary, 
to  the  best  of  your  power.  But  this  Dutch  one  only  wishes 
you  to  imagine  an  effect  of  sunlight  on  cowskin,  which  is  a  far 
lower  strain  of  the  imaginative  faculty. 

Also,  as  you  may  see  the  effect  of  sunlight  on  cowskin,  in 
reality,  any  summer  afternoon,  but  cannot  so  frequently  see  a 
St.  Elizabeth,  it  is  a  far  less  useful  strain  of  the  imaginative 
faculty. 

And,  generally  speaking,  the  Dutch  chiaroscurists  are  in- 
deed persons  without  imagination  at  all, — who,  not  being  able 
to  get  any  pleasure  out  of  their  thoughts,  try  to  get  it  out  of 
their  sensations ;  note,  however,  also  their  technical  connec- 
tion with  the  Greek  school  of  shade,  (see  my  sixth  inaugural 
lecture,  p.  158,)  in  which  colour  was  refused,  not  for  the  sake 
of  deception,  but  of  solemnity. 

25.  With  these  final  motives  you  are  not  now  concerned  ; 
your  present  business  is  the  quite  easy  one  of  knowing,  and 
noticing,  the  universal  distinction  between  the  methods  of 
treatment  in  which  the  aim  is  light,  and  in  which  it  is  colour ; 
and  so  to  keep  yourselves  guarded  from  the  danger  of  being 
misled  by  the,  often  very  ingenious,  talk  of  persons  who  have 


200 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


vivid  colour  sensations  without  having  learned  to  distinguish 
them  from  what  else  pleases  them  in  pictures.  There  is  an 
interesting  volume  by  Professor  Taine  on  the  Dutch  school, 
containing  a  valuable  historical  analysis  of  the  influences  which 
formed  it  ;  but  full  of  the  gravest  errors,  resulting  from  the 
confusion  in  his  mind  between  colour  and  tone,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  he  imagines  the  Dutch  painters  to  be  colour- 
ists. 

26.  It  is  so  important  for  you  to  be  grounded  securely  in 
these  first  elements  of  pictorial  treatment,  that  I  will  be  so 
far  tedious  as  to  show  you  one  more  instance  of  the  relative 
intellectual  value  of  the  pure  colour  and  pure  chiaroscuro 
school,  not  in  Dutch  and  Florentine,  but  in  English  art.  Here 
is  a  copy  of  one  of  the  lost  frescoes  of  our  Painted  Chamber 
of  Westminster ; — fourteenth-century  work,  entirely  conceived 
in  colour,  and  calculated  for  decorative  effect.  There  is  no 
more  light  and  shade  in  it  than  in  a  Queen  of  Hearts  in  a 
pack  of  cards  ;  all  that  the  painter  at  first  wants  you  to  see  is 
that  the  young  lady  has  a  white  forehead,  and  a  golden  crown, 
and  a  fair  neck,  and  a  violet  robe,  and  a  crimson  shield  with 
golden  leopards  on  it ;  and  that  behind  her  is  a  clear  blue 
sky.  Then,  farther,  he  wants  you  to  read  her  name,  "  Debon- 
nairete,"  which,  when  you  have  read,  he  farther  expects  you 
to  consider  what  it  is  to  be  debonnaire,  and  to  remember 
your  Chaucer's  description  of  the  virtue  : — 

She  was  not  brown,  nor  dun  of  hue, 
But  white  as  snowe,  fallen  new, 
With  even  glad,  and  browes  bent, 
Her  hair  down  to  her  heeles  went, 
And  she  was  simple,  as  dove  on  tree, 
Full  debonnair  of  heart  was  she. 

27.  You  see  Chaucer  dwells  on  the  color  just  as  much  as 
the  painter  does,  but  the  painter  has  also  given  her  the  Eng- 
lish shield  to  bear,  meaning  that  good-humour,  or  debonnair- 
ete,  cannot  be  maintained  by  self-indulgence  ; — only  by  forti- 
tude. Farther  note,  with  Chaucer,  the  "  eyen  glad,"  and  brows 
"  bent "  (high-arched  and  calm),  the  strong  life  (hair  down  to 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRAVING.  261 


the?  heels,)  and  that  her  gladness  is  to  be  without  subtlety, — 
that  is  to  say,  without  the  slightest  pleasure  in  any  form  of 
advantage-taking,  or  any  shrewd  or  mocking  wit :  "  she  was 
simple  as  dove  on  tree  ;  "  and  you  will  find  that  the  colour- 
painting,  both  in  the  fresco  and  in  the  poem,  is  in  the  very 
highest  degree  didactic  and  intellectual ;  and  distinguished,  as 
being  so,  from  all  inferior  forms  of  art.  Farther,  that  it  re- 
quires you  yourself  first  to  understand  the  nature  of  simplicity, 
and  to  like  simplicity  in  young  ladies  better  than  subtlety  ;  and 
to  understand  why  the  second  of  Love's  five  kind  arrows 
(Beaute  being  the  first), 

Simplece  ot  nom,  la  seconde 

Qui  maint  liomme  parmi  le  monde 

Et  mainte  dame  fait  amer. 

Nor  must  you  leave  the  picture  without  observing  that  there 
is  another  reason  for  Debonnairete's  bearing  the  Royal  shield, 
— of  all  shields  that,  rather  than  another.  "  De-bonne-aire  99 
meant  originally  "out  of  a  good  eagle's  nest," the  4 '  aire"  sig- 
nifying the  eagle's  nest  or  eyrie  especially,  because  it  is  flat, 
the  Latin  "area  "  being  the  root  of  all. 

And  this  coming  out  of  a  good  nest  is  recognized  as,  of  all 
things,  needfullest  to  give  the  strength  which  enables  people 
to  be  good-humoured  ;  and  thus  you  have  "  debonnaire " 
forming  the  third  word  of  the  group,  with  "  gentle "  and 
"kind,"  all  first  signifying  "of  good  race." 

You  will  gradually  see,  as  we  go  on,  more  and  more  why  I 
called  my  third  volume  of  lectures  Eagle's  Nest ;  for  I  am  not 
fantastic  in  these  titles,  as  is  often  said  ;  but  try  shortly  to 
mark  my  chief  purpose  in  the  book  by  them. 

28.  Now  for  comparison  with  this  old  art,  here  is  a  modern 
engraving,  in  which  colour  is  entirely  ignored  ;  and  light  and 
shade  alone  are  used  to  produce  what  is  supposed  to  be  a 
piece  of  impressive  religious  instruction.  But  it  is  not  a 
piece  of  religious  instruction  at  all ; — only  a  piece  of  religious 
sensation,  prepared  for  the  sentimental  pleasure  of  young 
ladies  ;  whom  (since  I  am  honoured  to-day  by  the  presence 
of  many)  I  will  take  the  opportunity  of  warning  against  such 


262 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


forms  of  false  theological  satisfaction.  This  engraving  repre- 
sents a  young  lady  in  a  very  long  and,  though  plain,  very  be- 
coming white  dress,  tossed  upon  the  waves  of  a  terrifically 
stormy  sea,  by  which  neither  her  hair  nor  her  becoming  dress 
is  in  the  least  wetted  ;  and  saved  from  despair  in  that  situa- 
tion by  closely  embracing  a  very  thick  and  solid  stone  Cross. 
By  which  far-sought  and  original  metaphor  young  ladies  are 
expected,  after  some  effort,  to  understand  the  recourse  they 
may  have,  for  support,  to  the  Cross  of  Christ,  in  the  midst  of 
the  troubles  of  this  world. 

29.  As  those  troubles  are  for  the  present,  in  all  probability, 
limited  to  the  occasional  loss  of  their  thimbles  when  they  have 
not  taken  care  to  put  them  into  their  workboxes, — the  concern 
they  feel  at  the  unsympathizing  gaiety  of  their  companions, — 
or  perhaps  the  disappointment  at  not  hearing  a  favourite 
clergyman  preach, — (for  I  will  not  suppose  the  young  ladies 
interested  in  this  picture  to  be  affected  by  any  chagrin  at  the 
loss  of  an  invitation  to  a  ball,  or  the  like  worldliness,) — it 
seems  to  me  the  stress  of  such  calamities  might  be  repre- 
sented, in  a  picture,  by  less  appalling  imagery.  And  I  can 
assure  my  fair  little  lady  friends, — if  I  still  have  any, — that 
whatever  a  young  girl's  ordinary  troubles  or  annoyances  may 
be,  her  true  virtue  is  in  shaking  them  off,  as  a  rose-leaf  shakes 
off  rain,  and  remaining  debonnaire  and  bright  in  spirits,  or 
even,  as  the  rose  would  be,  the  brighter  for  the  troubles  ;  and 
not  at  all  in  allowing  herself  to  be  either  drifted  or  depressed 
to  the  point  of  requiring  religious  consolation.  But  if  any  real 
and  deep  sorrow,  such  as  no  metaphor  can  represent,  fall  upon 
her,  does  she  suppose  that  the  theological  advice  of  this  piece 
of  modern  art  can  be  trusted  ?  If  she  will  take  the  pains  to 
think  truly,  she  will  remember  that  Christ  Himself  never  says 
anything  about  holding  by  His  Cross.  He  speaks  a  good  deal 
of  bearing  it ;  but  never  for  an  instant  of  holding  by  it.  It  is 
His  Hand,  not  His  Cross,  which  is  to  save  either  you,  or  St. 
Peter,  when  the  waves  are  rough.  And  the  utterly  reckless 
way  in  which  modern  religious  teachers,  whether  in  art  or 
literature,  abuse  the  metaphor  somewhat  briefly  and  violently 
leant  on  by  St.  Paul,  simply  prevents  your  understanding  the 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRAVING.  263 


meaning  of  any  word  which  Christ  Himself  speaks  on  this 
matter  !  So  you  see  this  popular  art  of  light  and  shade, 
catching  you  by  your  mere  thirst  of  sensation,  is  not  only  un- 
didactic,  but  the  reverse  of  didactic — deceptive  and  illusory. 

30.  This  popular  art,  you  hear  me  say,  scornfully  ;  and  I 
have  told  you,  in  some  of  my  teaching  in  Aratra  Pentelici,  that 
all  great  art  must  be  popular.  Yes,  but  great  art  is  popular, 
as  bread  and  water  are  to  children  fed  by  a  father.  And  vile 
art  is  popular,  as  poisonous  jelly  is,  to  children  cheated  by  a 
confectioner.  And  it  is  quite  possible  to  make  any  kind  of 
art  popular  on  those  last  terms.  The  colour  school  may  be- 
come just  as  poisonous  as  the  colourless,  in  the  hands  of  fools, 
or  of  rogues.  Here  is  a  book  I  bought  only  the  other  day, — 
one  of  the  things  got  up  cheap  to  catch  the  eyes  of  mothers 
at  bookstalls, — Puss  in  Boots,  illustrated  ;  a  most  definite 
work  of  the  colour  school — red  jackets  and  white  paws  and 
yellow  coaches  as  distinct  as  Giotto  or  Raphael  would  have 
kept  them.  But  the  thing  is  done  by  fools  for  money,  and 
becomes  entirely  monstrous  and  abominable.  Here,  again,  is 
colour  art  produced  by  fools  for  religion  :  here  is  Indian  sacred 
painting, — a  black  god  with  a  hundred  arms,  with  a  green  god 
on  one  side  of  him  and  a  red  god  on  the  other  ;  still  a  most 
definite  work  of  the  colour  school.  Giotto  or  Raphael  could 
not  have  made  the  black  more  resolutely  black,  (though  the 
whole  colour  of  the  school  of  Athens  is  kept  in  distinct  separa- 
tion from  one  black  square  in  it),  nor  the  green  more  unques- 
tionably green.    Yet  the  whole  is  pestilent  and  loathsome. 

31.  Now  but  one  point  more,  and  I  have  done  with  this  sub- 
ject for  to-day. 

You  must  not  think  that  this  manifest  brilliancy  and  Harle- 
quin's-jacket  character  is  essential  in  the  colour  school.  The 
essential  matter  is  only  that  everything  should  be  of  its  own 
definite  colour  :  it  may  be  altogether  sober  and  dark,  yet  the 
distinctness  of  hue  preserved  with  entire  fidelity.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  a  picture  of  Hogarth's, — one  of  quite  the  most 
precious  things  we  have  in  our  galleries.  It  represents  a 
meeting  of  some  learned  society — gentlemen  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, very  gravely  dressed,  but  who,  nevertheless,  as  gentlemen 


264 


ABIADjSTE  FLOBENTINA. 


pleasantly  did  in  that  day, — you  remember  Goldsmith's  weak- 
ness on  the  point — wear  coats  of  tints  of  dark  red,  blue,  or 
violet.  There  are  some  thirty  gentlemen  in  the  room,  and 
perhaps  seven  or  eight  different  tints  of  subdued  claret-colour 
in  their  coats ;  and  yet  every  coat  is  kept  so  distinctly  of  its 
own  proper  claret -colour,  that  each  gentleman's  servant  would 
know  his  master's. 

Yet  the  whole  canvas  is  so  grey  and  quiet,  that  as  I  now 
hold  it  by  this  Dutch  landscape,  with  the  vermilion  jacket, 
you  would  fancy  Hogarth's  had  no  colour  in  it  at  all,  and  that 
the  Dutchman  was  half-way  to  becoming  a  Titian  ;  whereas 
Hogarth's  is  a  consummate  piece  of  the  most  perfect  colourist 
school,  which  Titian  could  not  beat,  in  its  way  ;  and  the  Dutch- 
man could  no  more  paint  half  an  inch  of  it  than  he  could  sum- 
mon a  rainbow  into  the  clouds. 

32.  Here  then,  you  see,  are,  altogether,  five  works,  all  of 
the  absolutely  pure  colour  school : — 

1.  One,  Indian, — Religious  Art ; 

2.  One,  Florentine, — Religious  Art ; 

3.  One,  English,  from  Painted  Chamber,  Westminster- 

Ethic  Art ; 

4.  One,  English, — Hogarth, — Naturalistic  Art ; 

5.  One,  English, — to-day  sold  in  the  High  Street, — Carica- 

turist Art. 

And  of  these,  the  Florentine  and  old  English  are  divine  work, 
God-inspired ;  full,  indeed,  of  faults  and  innocencies,  but  di- 
vine, as  good  children  are. 

Then  this  by  Hogarth  is  entirely  wise  and  right ;  but 
worldly-wise,  not  divine. 

While  the  old  Indian,  and  this,  with  which  we  feed  our  chil- 
dren at  this  hour,  are  entirely  damnable  art ; — every  bit  of  it 
done  by  the  direct  inspiration  of  the  devil, — feeble,  ridiculous, 
— yet  mortally  poisonous  to  every  noble  quality  in  body  and 
soul. 

33.  I  have  now,  I  hope,  guarded  you  sufficiently  from  the 
danger  either  of  confusing  the  inferior  school  of  chiaroscuro 
with  that  of  colour,  or  of  imagining  that  a  work  must  neces- 
sarily be  good,  on  the  sole  ground  of  its  belonging  to  the 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENG11A  VINO.  265 


higher  group.  I  can  now  proceed  securely  to  separate  the 
third  school,  that  of  Delineation,  from  both  ;  and  to  examine 
its  special  qualities. 

It  begins,  (see  Inaugural  Lectures,  §  137,)  in  the  primitive 
work  of  races  insensible  alike  to  shade  and  to  colour,  and 
nearly  devoid  of  thought  and  of  sentiment,  but  gradually  de- 
veloping into  both. 

Now  as  the  design  is  primitive,  so  are  the  means  likely  to 
be  primitive.  A  line  is  the  simplest  work  of  art  you  can  pro- 
duce. What  are  the  simplest  means  you  can  produce  it 
with  ? 

A  Cumberland  lead  pencil  is  a  work  of  art  in  itself,  quite  a 
nineteenth-century  machine.  Pen  and  ink  are  complex  and 
scholarly  ;  and  even  chalk  or  charcoal  not  always  handy. 

But  the  primitive  line,  the  first  and  last,  generally  the  best 
of  lines,  is  that  which  you  have  elementary  faculty  of  at  your 
fingers'  ends,  and  which  kittens  can  draw  as  well  as  you — the 
scratch. 

The  first,  I  say,  and  the  last  of  lines.  Permanent  exceed- 
ingly,— even  in  flesh,  or  on  mahogany  tables,  often  more  per- 
manent than  we  desire.  But  when  studiously  and  honourably 
made,  divinely  permanent,  or  delightfully — as  on  the  venerable 
desks  of  our  public  schools,  most  of  them,  now,  specimens  of 
wood  engraving  dear  to  the  heart  of  England. 

34.  Engraving,  then,  is  in  brief  terms,  the  Art  of  Scratch. 
It  is  essentially  the  cutting  into  a  solid  substance  for  the  sake 
of  making  your  ideas  as  permanent  as  possible, — graven  with 
an  iron  pen  in  the  Kock  for  ever.  Permanence,  you  observe, 
is  the  object,  not  multiplicability  ; — that  is  quite  an  accidental, 
sometimes  not  even  a  desirable,  attribute  of  engraving.  Du- 
ration of  your  work — fame,  and  the  undeceived  vision  of  all 
men,  on  the  pane  of  glass  of  the  window  on  a  wet  day,  or  on 
the  pillars  of  the  castle  of  Chillon,  or  on  the  walls  of  the 
pyramids  ; — a  primitive  art, — yet  first  and  last  with  us. 

Since  then  engraving,  we  say,  is  essentially  cutting  into  the 
surface  of  any  solid  ;  as  the  primitive  design  is  in  lines  or 
dots,  the  primitive  cutting  of  such  design  is  a  scratch  or  a 
hole  ;  and  scratchable  solids  being  essentially  three — stone, 


260 


ARIADNE  FLORENT1NA. 


wood,  metal, — we  shall  have  three  great  schools  of  engraving 
to  investigate  in  each  material. 

35.  On  tablet  of  stone,  on  tablet  of  wood,  on  tablet  of  steel, 
— the  first  giving  the  law  to  everything  ;  the  second  true 
Athenian,  like  Athena's  first  statue  in  olive-wood,  making  the 
law  legible  and  homely  ;  and  the  third  true  Vulcanian,  having 
the  splendour  and  power  of  accomplished  labour. 

Now  of  stone  engraving,  which  is  joined  inseparably  with 
sculpture  and  architecture,  I  am  not  going  to  speak  at  length 
in  this  course  of  lectures.  I  shall  speak  only  of  wood  and 
metal  engraving.  But  there  is  one  circumstance  in  stone  en- 
graving which  it  is  necessary  to  observe  in  connection  with 
the  other  two  branches  of  the  art. 

The  great  difficulty  for  a  primitive  engraver  is  to  make  his 
scratch  deep  enough  to  be  visible.  Visibility  is  quite  as 
essential  to  your  fame  as  permanence  ;  and  if  you  have 
only  your  furrow  to  depend  on,  the  engraved  tablet,  at 
certain  times  of  day,  will  be  illegible,  and  passed  without 
notice. 

But  suppose  you  fill  in  your  furrow  with  something  black, 
then  it  will  be  legible  enough  at  once  ;  and  if  the  black  fall 
out  or  wash  out,  still  your  furrow  is  there,  and  may  be  filled 
again  by  anybody. 

Therefore,  the  noble  stone  engravers,  using  marble  to  re- 
ceive their  furrow,  fill  that  furrow  with  marble  ink. 

And  you  have  an  engraved  plate  to  purpose  ; — with  the 
whole  sky  for  its  margin  !  Look  here — the  front  of  the  church 
of  San  Michele  of  Lucca, — white  marble  with  green  serpen- 
tine for  ink ;  or  here, — the  steps  of  the  Giant's  Stair,  with 
lead  for  ink  ;  or  here, — the  floor  of  the  Pisan  Duomo,  with 
porphyry  for  ink.  Such  cutting,  filled  in  with  colour  or  with 
black,  branches  into  all  sorts  of  developments, — Florentine 
mosaic  on  the  one  hand,  niello  on  the  other,  and  infinite 
minor  arts. 

36.  Yet  we  must  not  make  this  filling  with  colour  part  of 
our  definition  of  engraving.  To  engrave  is,  in  final  strictness, 
"  to  decorate  a  surface  with  furrows."  (Cameos,  in  accuratest 
terms,  are  minute  sculptures,  not  engravings.)    A  ploughed 


DEFINITION  OF  THE  ART  OF  ENGRA  VINO.  267 


field  is  the  purest  type  of  such  art ;  and  is,  on  hilly  land,  an 
exquisite  piece  of  decoration. 

Therefore  it  will  follow  that  engraving  distinguishes  itself 
from  ordinary  drawing  by  greater  need  of  muscular  effort. 

The  quality  of  a  pen  drawing  is  to  be  produced  easily, — de- 
liberately, always,*  but  with  a  point  that  glides  over  the 
paper.  Engraving,  on  the  contrary,  requires  always  force, 
and  its  virtue  is  that  of  a  line  produced  by  pressure,  or  by 
blows  of  a  chisel. 

It  involves,  therefore,  always,  ideas  of  power  and  dexterity, 
but  also  of  restraint ;  and  the  delight  you  take  in  it  should 
involve  the  understanding  of  the  difficulty  the  workman  dealt 
with.  You  perhaps  doubt  the  extent  to  which  this  feeling 
justly  extends,  (in  the  first  volume  of  "  Modern  Painters,"  ex- 
pressed under  the  head  "Ideas  of  Power.")  But  why  is  a 
large  stone  in  any  building  grander  than  a  small  one  ?  Sim- 
ply because  it  was  more  difficult  to  raise  it.  So,  also,  an  en- 
graved line  is,  and  ought  to  be,  recognized  as  more  grand 
than  a  pen  or  pencil  line,  because  it  was  more  difficult  to  exe- 
cute it. 

In  this  mosaic  of  Lucca  front  you  forgive  much,  and  ad- 
mire much,  because  you  see  it  is  all  cut  in  stone.  So,  in  wood 
and  -steel,  you  ought  to  see  that  every  line  has  been  costly  ; 
but  observe,  costly  of  deliberative,  no  less  than  athletic  or 
executive  power.  The  main  use  of  the  restraint  which  makes 
the  line  difficult  to  draw,  is  to  give  time  and  motive  for  delib- 
eration in  drawing  it,  and  to  ensure  its  being  the  best  in  your 
power. 

37.  For,  as  with  deliberation,  so  without  repentance,  your 
engraved  line  must  be.  It  may,  indeed,  be  burnished  or 
beaten  out  again  in  metal,  or  patched  and  botched  in  stone  ; 
but  always  to  disadvantage,  and  at  pains  which  must  not  be 
incurred  often.  And  there  is  a  singular  evidence  in  one  of 
Durer's  finest  plates  that,  in  his  time,  or  at  least  in  his  manner 
of  work,  it  was  not  possible  at  all.  Among  the  disputes  as  to 
the  meaning  of  Durer's  Knight  and  Death,  you  will  find  it 
sometimes  suggested,  or  insisted,  that  the  horse's  raised  foot 
*  Compare  Inaugural  Lectures,  §  144. 


268 


ARIADNE  FL  ORRIS  TINA . 


is  going  to  fall  into  a  snare.  What  lias  been  fancied  a  noose 
is  only  the  former  outline  of  the  horse's  foot  and  limb,  unef- 
faced. 

The  engraved  line  is  therefore  to  be  conclusive ;  not  experi- 
mental. "  I  have  determined  this/'  says  the  engraver.  Much 
excellent  pen  drawing  is  excellent  in  being  tentative, — in  be- 
ing experimental.  Indeterminate,  not  through  want  of  mean- 
ing, but  through  fulness  of  it — halting  wisely  between  two 
opinions — feeling  cautiously  after  clearer  opinions.  But  your 
engraver  has  made  up  his  opinion.  This  is  so,  and  must  for 
ever  be  so,  he  tells  you.  A  very  proper  thing  for  a  thoughtful 
man  to  say  ;  a  very  improper  and  impertinent  thing  for  a  fool- 
ish one  to  say.  Foolish  engraving  is  consummately  foolish 
work.  Look, — all  the  world, — look  for  evermore,  says  the 
foolish  engraver ;  see  what  a  fool  I  have  been.  How  many 
lines  I  have  laid  for  nothing.  Howr  many  lines  upon  lines, 
with  no  precept,  much  less  superprecept. 

38.  Here,  then,  are  two  definite  ethical  characters  in  all  en- 
graved work.  It  is  Athletic  ;  and  it  is  Eesolute.  Add  one 
more  ;  that  it  is  Obedient ; — in  their  infancy  the  nurse,  but 
in  their  youth  the  slave,  of  the  higher  arts  ;  servile,  both  in 
the  mechanism  and  labour  of  it,  and  in  its  function  of  inter- 
preting the  schools  of  painting  as  superior  to  itself. 

And  this  relation  to  the  higher  arts  we  will  study  at  the 
source  of  chief  power  in  all  the  normal  skill  of  Christendom, 
Florence  ;  and  chiefly,  as  I  said,  in  the  work  of  one  Florentine 
master,  Sandro  Botticelli. 


LECTURE  H. 

THE  RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS  IN  FLORENCE. 

39.  From  what  was  laid  before  you  in  my  last  lecture,  you 
must  now  be  aware  that  I  do  not  mean,  by  the  word  '  engrav- 
ing,' merely  the  separate  art  of  producing  plates  from  which 
black  pictures  may  be  printed. 

I  mean,  by  engraving,  the  art  of  producing  decoration  on  a 
surface  by  the  touches  of  a  chisel  or  a  burin  ;  and  I  mean  by 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  2'o9 

its  relation  to  other  arts,  the  subordinate  surface  of  this  lin- 
ear work,  in  sculpture,  in  metal  work,  and  in  painting ;  or  in 
the  representation  and  repetition  of  painting. 

And  first,  therefore,  I  have  to  map  out  the  broad  relations 
of  the  arts  of  sculpture,  metal  work,  and  painting,  in  Florence, 
among  themselves,  during  the  period  in  which  the  art  of  en- 
graving was  distinctly  connected  with  them.* 

40.  You  will  find,  or  may  remember,  that  in  my  lecture  on 
Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret  I  indicated  the  singular  impor- 
tance, in  the  history  of  art,  of  a  space  of  forty  years,  between 
1480,  and  the  year  in  which  Raphael  died,  1520.  Within  that 
space  of  time  the  change  was  completed,  from  the  principles 
of  ancient,  to  those  of  existing,  art ; — a  manifold  change,  not 
definable  in  brief  terms,  but  most  clearly  characterized,  and 
easily  remembered,  as  the  change  of  conscientious  and  didactic 
art,  into  that  which  proposes  to  itself  no  duty  beyond  techni- 
cal skill,  and  no  object  but  the  pleasure  of  the  beholder.  Of 
that  momentous  change  itself  I  do  not  purpose  to  speak  in  the 
present  course  of  lectures  ;  but  my  endeavour  will  be  to  lay 
before  you  a  rough  chart  of  the  course  of  the  arts  in  Florence 
up  to  the  time  when  it  took  place  ;  a  chart  indicating  for  you, 
definitely,  the  growth  of  conscience,  in  work  which  is  distinct- 
ively conscientious,  and  the  perfecting  of  expression  and 
means  of  popular  address,  in  that  which  is  distinctively  di- 
dactic. 

41.  Means  of  popular  address,  observe,  which  have  become 
singularly  important  to  us  at  this  day.  Nevertheless,  remem- 
ber that  the  power  of  printing,  or  reprinting,  black  pictures, 
— practically  contemporary  with  that  of  reprinting  black  letters, 
— modified  the  art  of  the  draughtsman  only  as  it  modified  that 
of  the  scribe.  Beautiful  and  unique  writing,  as  beautiful  and 
unique  painting  or  engraving,  remain  exactly  what  they  were  ; 
but  other  useful  and  reproductive  methods  of  both  have  been 
superadded.  Of  these,  it  is  acutely  said  by  Dr.  Alfred  Wolt- 
mann,f — 

*  Compare  Aratra  Pentelici,  §  154. 

f  "  Holbein  and  His  Time,"  4to,  Bentley,  1872,  (a  very  valuable  book,) 
p.  17.    Italics  mine. 


270 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


"  A  far  more  important  part  is  played  in  the  art-life  of  Ger- 
many by  the  technical  arts  for  the  multiplying  of  works  ;  for 
Germany,  while  it  was  the  land  of  book-printing,  is  also  the 
land  of  picture-printing.  Indeed,  wood-engraving,  which  pre- 
ceded the  invention  of  book-printing,  prepared  the  way  for  it, 
and  only  left  one  step  more  necessary  for  it.  Book-printing  and 
picture-printing  have  both  the  same  inner  cause  for  their  ori- 
gin, namely,  the  impulse  to  make  each  mental  gain  a  common 
blessing.  Not  merely  princes  and  rich  nobles  were  to  have 
the  privilege  of  adorning  their  private  chapels  and  apartments 
with  beautiful  religious  pictures ;  the  poorest  man  was  also  to 
have  his  delight  in  that  which  the  artist  had  devised  and  pro- 
duced. It  was  not  sufficient  for  him  when  it  stood  in  the 
church  as  an  altar-shrine,  visible  to  him  and  to  the  congregation 
from  afar ;  he  desired  to  have  it  as  his  own,  to  carry  it  about 
with  him,  to  bring  it  into  his  own  home.  The  grand  impor- 
tance of  wood-engraving  and  copperplate  is  not  sufficiently 
estimated  in  historical  investigations.  They  were  not  alone 
of  use  in  the  advance  of  art ;  they  form  an  epoch  in  the  entire 
life  of  mind  and  culture.  The  idea  embodied  and  multiplied 
in  pictures  became  like  that  embodied  in  the  printed  word, 
the  herald  of  every  intellectual  movement,  and  conquered  the 
world." 

42.  "  Conquered  the  world  "  ?  The  rest  of  the  sentence  is 
true,  but  this,  hyperbolic,  and  greatly  false.  It  should  have 
been  said  that  both  painting  and  engraving  have  conquered 
much  of  the  good  in  the  world,  and,  hitherto,  little  or  none  of 
the  evil. 

Nor  do  I  hold  it  usually  an  advantage  to  art,  in  teaching, 
that  it  should  be  common,  or  constantly  seen.  In  becoming 
intelligibly  and  kindly  beautiful,  while  it  remains  solitary  and 
unrivalled,  it  has  a  greater  power.  Westminster  Abbey  is 
more  didactic  to  the  English  nation,  than  a  million  of  popular 
illustrated  treatises  on  architecture. 

Nay,  even  that  it  cannot  be  understood  but  with  some  diffi- 
culty, and  must  be  sought  before  it  can  be  seen,  is  no  harm. 
The  noblest  didactic  art  is,  as  it  were,  set  on  a  hill,  and  its 
disciples  come  to  it.  The  vilest  destructive  and  corrosive  art 
stands  at  the  street  corners,  crying,  "  Turn  in  hither  ;  come, 
eat  of  my  bread,  and  drink  of  my  wine,  which  I  have 
mingled/* 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  271 


And  Dr.  Woltmann  has  allowed  himself  too  easily  to  fall 
into  the  common  notion  of  Liberalism,  that  bad  art,  dissemi- 
nated, is  instructive,  and  good  art  isolated,  not  so.  The 
question  is,  first,  I  assure  you,  whether  what  art  you  have  got 
is  good  or  bad.  If  essentially  bad,  the  more  you  see  of  it, 
the  worse  for  you.  Entirely  popular  art  is  all  that  is  noble, 
in  the  cathedral,  the  council  chamber,  and  the  market-place  ; 
not  the  paltry  coloured  print  pinned  on  the  wall  of  a  private 
room. 

43.  I  despise  the  poor ! — do  I,  think  you  ?  Not  so.  They 
only  despise  the  poor  who  think  them  better  off  with  police 
news,  and  coloured  tracts  of  the  story  of  Joseph  and  Poti- 
phar's  wife,  than  they  were  with  Luini  painting  on  their 
church  walls,  and  Donatello  carving  the  pillars  of  their 
Market-places. 

Nevertheless,  the  effort  to  be  universally,  instead  of  locally, 
didactic,  modified  advantageously,  as  you  know,  and  in  a 
thousand  ways  varied,  the  earlier  art  of  engraving  :  and  the 
development  of  its  popular  power,  whether  for  good  or  evil> 
came  exactly — so  fate  appointed — at  a  time  when  the  minds 
of  the  masses  were  agitated  by  the  struggle  which  closed  in 
the  Reformation  in  some  countries,  and  in  the  desperate  re- 
fusal of  Reformation  in  others.*  The  two  greatest  masters  of 
engraving  whose  lives  we  are  to  study,  were,  both  of  them, 
passionate  reformers  :  Holbein  no  less  than  Luther  ;  Botticelli 
no  less  than  Savonarola. 

44.  Reformers,  I  mean,  in  the  full  and,  accurately,  the  only, 
sense.  Not  preachers  of  new  doctrines ;  but  witnesses 
against  the  betrayal  of  the  old  ones  which  were  on  the  lips  of 
all  men,  and  in  the  lives  of  none.  Nay,  the  painters  are  indeed 
more  pure  reformers  than  the  priests.  They  rebuked  the 
manifest  vices  of  men,  while  they  realized  whatever  was  love- 
liest in  their  faith.  Priestly  reform  soon  enraged  itself  into 
mere  contest  for  personal  opinions  ;  while,  without  rage,  but 
in  stern  rebuke  of  all  that  was  vile  in  conduct  or  thought, — 
in  declaration  of  the  always-received  faiths  of  the  Christian 

*  See  Carlyle,  Frederick,  Book  III.,  chap.  viii. 


272 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


Church,  and  in  warning  of  the  power  of  faith,  and  death,* 
over  the  petty  designs  of  men, — Botticelli  and  Holbein  to- 
gether fought  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  the  reformation. 

45.  To-day  I  will  endeavour  to  explain  how  they  attained 
such  rank.  Then,  in  the  next  two  lectures,  the  technics  of 
both, — their  way  of  speaking  ;  and  in  the  last  two,  what  they 
had  got  to  say. 

First,  then,  we  ask  how  they  attained  this  rank  ; — who 
taught  them  what  they  were  finally  best  to  teach  ?  How  far 
must  every  people — how  far  did  this  Florentine  people — 
teach  its  masters,  before  they  could  teach  it  ? 

Even  in  these  days,  when  every  man  is,  by  hypothesis,  as 
good  as  another,  does  not  the  question  sound  strange  to  you  ? 
You  recognize  in  the  past,  as  you  think,  clearly,  that  national 
advance  takes  place  always  under  the  guidance  of  masters, 
or  groups  of  masters,  possessed  of  what  appears  to  be  some 
new  personal  sensibility  or  gift  of  invention  ;  and  we  are  apt 
to  be  reverent  to  these  alone,  as  if  the  nation  itself  had  been 
unprogressive,  and  suddenly  awakened,  or  converted,  by  the 
genius  of  one  man. 

No  idea  can  be  more  superficial.  Every  nation  must  teach 
its  tutors,  and  prepare  itself  to  receive  them  ;  but  the  fact  on 
which  our  impression  is  founded — the  rising,  apparently  by 
chance,  of  men  whose  singular  gifts  suddenly  melt  the  multi- 
tude, already  at  the  point  of  fusion  ;  or  suddenly  form,  and 
inform,  the  multitude  which  has  gained  coherence  enough  to 
be  capable  of  formation, — enables  us  to  measure  and  map 
the  gain  of  national  intellectual  territory,  by  tracing  first  the 
lifting  of  the  mountain  chains  of  its  genius. 

46.  I  have  told  you  that  we  have  nothing  to  do  at  present 
with  the  great  transition  from  ancient  to  modern  habits  of 
thought  which  took  place  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 
century.    I  only  want  to  go  as  far  as  that  point  ; — where  we 

*  I  believe  I  am  taking  too  much  trouble  in  writing  these  lectures. 
This  sentence,  §  44,  has  cost  me,  I  suppose,  first  and  last,  about  as 
many  hours  as  there  are  lines  in  it ; — and  my  choice  of  these  two  words, 
faith  and  death,  as  representatives  of  power,  will  perhaps,  after  all, 
only  puzzle  the  reader. 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  273 


shall  find  the  old  superstitious  art  represented  finally  by 
Perugino,  and  the  modern  scientific  and  anatomical  art  repre- 
sented primarily  by  Michael  Angelo.  And  the  epithet  be- 
stowed on  Perugino  by  Michael  Angelo,  '  go  rib  nell'  arte,' 
dunce,  or  blockhead,  in  art, — being,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  of 
history  extends,  the  most  cruel,  the  most  false,  and  the  most 
foolish  insult  ever  offered  by  one  great  man  to  another, — does 
you  at  least  good  service,  in  showing  how  trenchant  the 
separation  is  between  the  two  orders  of  artists,* — how  exclu- 
sively we  may  follow  out  the  history  of  all  the  £  goffi  nell ' 
arte/  and  write  our  Florentine  Dunciad,  and  Laus  Stultitise, 
in  peace  ;  and  never  trench  upon  the  thoughts  or  ways  of 
these  proud  ones,  who  showed  their  fathers'  nakedness,  and 
snatched  their  masters'  fame. 

47.  The  Florentine  dunces  in  art  are  a  multitude  ;  but  I 
only  want  you  to  know  something  about  twenty  of  them. 

Twenty  ! — you  think  that  a  grievous  number  ?  It  may, 
perhaps,  appease  you  a  little  to  be  told  that  when  you  really 
have  learned  a  very  little,  accurately,  about  these  twenty 
dunces,  there  are  only  five  more  men  among  the  artists  of 
Christendom  whose  works  I  shall  ask  you  to  examine  while 
you  are  under  my  care.  That  makes  twenty-five  altogether, 
— an  exorbitant  demand  on  your  attention,  you  still  think  ? 
And  yet,  but  a  little  while  ago,  you  were  all  agog  to  get  me  to 
go  and  look  at  Mrs.  A's  sketches,  and  tell  you  what  was  to  be 
thought  about  them  ;  and  I've  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to 
keep  Mrs.  B's  photographs  from  being  shown  side  by  side  with 
the  Raphael  drawings  in  the  University  galleries.  And  you 
will  waste  any  quantity  of  time  in  looking  at  Mrs.  A's 
sketches  or  Mrs.  B's  photographs ;  and  yet  you  look  grave, 
because,  out  of  nineteen  centuries  of  European  art-labour  and 
thought,  I  ask  you  to  learn  something  seriously  about  the 
works  of  five-and-twenty  men  ! 

48.  It  is  hard  upon  you,  doubtless,  considering  the  quan- 

*  He  is  said  by  Vasari  to  have  called  Francia  the  like.  Francia  is  a 
child  compared  to  Perugino  ;  but  a  finished  working-goldsmith  and 
ornamental  painter  nevertheless  ;  and  one  of  the  very  last  men  to  be 
called  '  goffo,'  except  by  unparalleled  insolence. 


274 


ARIADNE  FLOEENTINA. 


tity  of  time  you  must  nowadays  spend  in  trying  which  can  hit 
balls  farthest.  So  I  will  put  the  task  into  the  simplest  form  I 
can. 

Here  are  the  names  of  the  twenty-five  men,*  and  opposite 
each,  a  line  indicating  the  length  of  his  life,  and  the  position 
of  it  in  his  century.  The  diagram  still,  however,  needs  a  few 
words  of  explanation.  Very  chiefly,  for  those  who  know  any- 
thing of  my  writings,  there  is  needed  explanation  of  its  not 
including  the  names  of  Titian,  Reynolds,  Velasquez,  Turner, 
and  other  such  men,  always  reverently  put  before  you  at  other 
times. 

They  are  absent,  because  I  have  no  fear  of  your  not  looking 
at  these.  All  your  lives  through,  if  you  care  about  art,  you 
will  be  looking  at  them.  But  while  you  are  here  at  Oxford, 
I  want  to  make  you  learn  what  you  should  know  of  these 
earlier,  many  of  them  weaker,  men,  who  yet,  for  the  very 
reason  of  their  greater  simplicity  of  power,  are  better  guides 
for  you,  and  of  whom  some  will  remain  guides  to  all  genera- 
tions. And,  as  regards  the  subject  of  our  present  course,  I 
have  a  still  more  weighty  reason  ; — Vandyke,  Gainsborough, 
Titian,  Reynolds,  Velasquez,  and  the  rest,  are  essentially  por- 
trait painters.  They  give  you  the  likeness  of  a  man  :  they 
have  nothing  to  say  either  about  his  future  life,  or  his  gods. 
'That  is  the  look  of  him/  they  say  :  'here,  on  earth,  we  know 
no  more.' 

49.  But  these,  whose  names  I  have  engraved,  have  some- 
thing to  say — generally  much, — either  about  the  future  life  of 
man,  or  about  his  gods.  They  are  therefore,  literally,  seers 
or  prophets.  False  prophets,  it  may  be,  or  foolish  ones ;  of 
that  you  must  judge ;  but  you  must  read  before  you  can 
judge  ;  and  read  (or  hear)  them  consistently  ;  for  you  don't 
know  them  till  you  have  heard  them  out.  But  with  Sir 
Joshua,  or  Titian,  one  portrait  is  as  another  :  it  is  here  a 
pretty  lady,  there  a  great  lord ;  but  speechless,  all ; — whereas, 
with  these  twenty-five  men,  each  picture  or  statue  is  not 

*  The  diagram  used  at  the  lecture  is  engraved  on  the  opposite  leaf; 
the  reader  had  better  draw  it  larger  for  himself,  as  it  had  to  be  made 
inconveniently  small  for  this  size  of  leaf. 


RELATION  OF  ENGRA  VINO  TO  OTHER  ARTS. 


275 


merely  another  person  of  a  pleasant  society,  but  another 
chapter  of  a  Sibylline  book. 

50.  For  this  reason,  then,  I  do  not  want  Sir  Joshua  or 
Velasquez  in  my  denned  group  ;  and  for  my  present  purpose, 
I  can  spare  from  it  even  four  others  : — namely,  three  who  have 
too  special  gifts,  and  must  each  be  separately  studied — Cor- 
reggio,  Carpaccio,  Tin  tore  t ; — and  one  who  has  no  special  gift, 
but  a  balanced  group  of  many — Cima.  This  leaves  twenty- 
one  for  classification,  of  whom  I  will  ask  you  to  lay  hold  thus. 
You  must  continually  have  felt  the  difficulty  caused  by  the 
names  of  centuries  not  tallying  with  their  years  ; — the  year 
1201  being  the  first  of  the  13fch  century,  and  so  on.  I  am 
always  plagued  by  it  myself,  much  as  I  have  to  think  and  write 
with  reference  to  chronology  ;  and  I  mean  for  the  future,  in 
our  art  chronology,  to  use  as  far  as  possible  a  different  form 
of  notation. 

51.  In  my  diagram  the  vertical  lines  are  the  divisions  of 
tens  of  years ;  the  thick  black  lines  divide  the  centuries.  The 
horizontal  lines,  then,  at  a  glance,  tell  you  the  length  and  date 
of  each  artist's  life.  In  one  or  two  instances  I  cannot  find  the 
date  of  birth  ;  in  one  or  two  more,  of  death  ;  and  the  line  in- 
dicates then  only  the  ascertained  *  period  during  which  the 
artist  worked. 

And,  thus  represented,  you  see  nearly  all  their  lives  run 
through  the  year  of  a  new  century  ;  so  that  if  the  lines  repre- 
senting them  were  needles,  and  the  black  bars  of  the  years 
1300,  1400,  1500  were  magnets,  I  could  take  up  nearly  all  the 
needles  by  lifting  the  bars. 

52.  I  will  actually  do  this,  then,  in  three  other  simple  dia- 
grams. I  place  a  rod  for  the  year  1300  over  the  lines  of  life, 
and  I  take  up  all  it  touches.  I  have  to  drop  Niccola  Pisano, 
but  I  catch  five.  Now,  with  my  rod  of  1400,  I  have  dropped 
Orcagna  indeed,  but  I  again  catch  five.  Now,  with  my  rod  of 
1500,  I  indeed  drop  Filippo  Lippi  and  Verrocchio,  but  I  catch 
seven.    And  here  I  have  three  pennons,  with  the  staves  of  the 

*  '  Ascertained,'  scarcely  any  date  ever  is,  quite  satisfactorily.  The 
diagram  only  represents  what  is  practically  and  broadly  true.  I  may 
have  to  modify  it  greatly  in  detail. 


276 


ARIADNE  FL011ENTINA. 


years  1300,  1400,  and  1500  running  through  them, — holding 
the  names  of  nearly  all  the  men  I  want  you  to  study  in  easily 
remembered  groups  of  five,  five,  and  seven.  And  these  three 
groups  I  shall  hereafter  call  the  1300  group,  1400  group,  and 
1500  group. 

53.  But  why  should  four  unfortunate  masters  be  dropped 
out? 

Well,  I  want  to  drop  them  out,  at  any  rate  ;  but  not  in  dis- 
respect. In  hope,  on  the  contrary,  to  make  you  remember 
them  very  separately  indeed  ; — for  this  following  reason. 

We  are  in  the  careless  habit  of  speaking  of  men  who  form 
a  great  number  of  pupils,  and  have  a  host  of  inferior  satellites 
round  them,  as  masters  of  great  schools. 

But  before  you  call  a  man  a  master,  you  should  ask,  Are 
his  pupils  greater  or  less  than  himself  ?  If  they  are  greater 
than  himself,  he  is  a  master  indeed  ; — he  has  been  a  true 
teacher.  But  if  all  his  pupils  are  less  than  himself,  he  may 
have  been  a  great  man,  but  in  all  probability  has  been  a  bad 
master,  or  no  master. 

Now  these  men,  whom  I  have  signally  left  out  of  my  groups, 
are  true  Masters. 

Niccola  Pisano  taught  all  Italy  ;  but  chiefly  his  own  son, 
who  succeeded,  and  in  some  things  very  much  surpassed 
him. 

Orcagna  taught  all  Italy,  after  him,  down  to  Michael  An- 
gelo.  And  these  two — Lippi,  the  religious  schools,  Verrocchio, 
the  artist  schools,  of  their  century. 

Lippi  taught  Sandro  Botticelli ;  and  Verrocchio  taught 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Lorenzo  di  Credi,  and  Perugino.  Have  I 
not  good  reason  to  separate  the  masters  of  such  pupils  from 
the  schools  they  created  ? 

54.  But  how  is  it  that  I  can  drop  just  the  cards  I  want  out 
of  my  pack  ? 

Well  certainly  I  force  and  fit  matters  a  little  :  I  leave  some 
men  out  of  my  list  whom  I  should  like  to  have  in  it ; — 
Benozzo,  Gozzoli,  for  instance,  and  Mino  da  Fiesole  ;  but  I 
can  do  without  them,  and  so  can  you  also,  for  the  present.  I 
catch  Luca  by  a  hair's-breadth  only,  with  my  1400  rod  ;  but 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS, 


X300* 


1240—1303  Cimabue 

1250—1321  Giovanni  Pisano 

1232—1310  Abnolfo  \ 

1270—1345  Andrea  Pisano 

1276-1336  Giotto 


X400# 


1374—1438  Querela 

1381—1455  Ghiberti 

1377—1446  Bkunelleschi 

1386—1468  Donstello 

1400-1481  Luca 


1431—1506  Mantegna 

1457-1515  Botticelli 

1426-1516  Bellini 

1446—1524  PERtGiHO 

1470-  1535  Luini 

1471-  1527  Durer 
1498-1543  Holbein 


378 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


on  the  whole,  with  very  little  coaxing,  I  get  the  groups  in  this 
memorable  and  quite  literally  '  handy '  form.  For  see,  I  write 
my  list  of  five,  five,  and  seven,  on  bits  of  pasteboard  ;  I  hinge 
my  rods  to  these  ;  and  you  can  brandish  the  school  of  1400  in 
your  left  hand,  and  of  1500  in  your  right,  like — railway  sig- 
nals ; — and  I  wish  all  railway  signals  were  as  clear.  Once 
learn,  thoroughly,  the  groups  in  this  artificially  contracted 
form,  and  you  can  refine  and  complete  afterwards  at  your 
leisure. 

55.  And  thus  actually  flourishing  my  two  pennons,  and  get- 
ting my  grip  of  the  men,  in  either  hand,  I  find  a  notable  thing 
concerning  my  two  flags.  The  men  whose  names  I  hold  in 
my  left  hand  are  all  sculptors  ;  the  men  whose  names  I  hold 
in  my  right  are  all  painters. 

You  will  infallibly  suspect  me  of  having  chosen  them  thus 
on  purpose.  No,  honour  bright ! — I  chose  simply  the  greatest 
men, — those  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  arranged  them 
by  their  dates  ;  I  put  them  into  three  conclusive  pennons  ; 
and  behold  what  follows  ! 

56.  Farther,  note  this  :  in  the  1300  group,  four  out  of  the 
five  men  are  architects  as  well  as  sculptors  and  painters.  In 
the  1400  group,  there  is  one  architect ;  in  the  1500,  none. 
And  the  meaning  of  that  is,  that  in  1300  the  arts  were  all 
united,  and  duly  led  by  architecture  ;  in  1400,  sculpture  began 
to  assume  too  separate  a  power  to  herself  ;  in  1500,  painting 
arrogated  all,  and,  at  last,  betrayed  all.  From  which,  with 
much  other  collateral  evidence,  you  may  justly  conclude  that 
the  three  arts  ought  to  be  practised  together,  and  that  they 
naturally  are  so.  I  long  since  asserted  that  no  man  could  be 
an  architect  who  was  not  a  sculptor.  As  I  learned  more  and 
more  of  my  business,  I  perceived  also  that  no  man  could  be  a 
sculptor  who  was  not  an  architect ; — that  is  to  say,  who  had 
not  knowledge  enough,  and  pleasure  enough  in  structural  law, 
to  be  able  to  build,  on  occasion,  better  than  a  mere  builder. 
And  so,  finally,  I  now  positively  aver  to  you  that  nobody,  in 
the  graphic  arts,  can  be  quite  rightly  a  master  of  anything, 
who  is  not  master  of  everything  ! 

57.  The  junction  of  the  three  arts  in  men's  minds,  at  the 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  279 


best  times,  is  shortly  signified  in  these  words  of  Chaucer. 
Love's  Garden, 

Everidele 
Enclosed  was,  and  walled  well 
With  high  walls,  embatailled, 
Portrayed  without,  and  well  entayled 
With  many  rich  portraitures. 

The  French  original  is  better  still,  and  gives  four  arts  in 
unison  : — 

Quant  suis  avant  un  pou  ale 

Et  vy  un  vergier  grant  et  le, 

Bien  cloz  de  bon  mur  batillie 

Pourtrait  dehors,  et  entaillie 

Ou  (for  au)  maintes  riches  escriptures. 

Read  also  carefully  the  description  of  the  temples  of  Mars 
and  Venus  in  the  Knight's  Tale.  Contemporary  French  uses 
c  entaille  '  even  of  solid  sculpture  and  of  the  living  form  ;  and 
Pygmalion,  as  a  perfect  master,  professes  wood  carving,  ivory 
carving,  wax-work,  and  iron-work,  no  less  than  stone  sculpt- 
ure : — 

Pimalion,  uns  entaillieres 
Pourtraians  en  fuz  *  et  en  pierres, 
En  mettaux,  en  os,  et  en  che, 
Et  en  toute  autre  matire. 

58.  I  made  a  little  sketch,  wThen  last  in  Florence,  of  a  sub- 
ject which  will  fix  the  idea  of  this  unity  of  the  arts  in  your 
minds.  At  the  base  of  the  tower  of  Giotto  are  two  rows  of 
hexagonal  panels,  filled  with  bas-reliefs.  Some  of  these  are 
by  unknown  hands, — some  by  Andrea  Pisano,  some  by  Luca 
della  Robbia,  two  by  Giotto  himself  ;  of  these  I  sketched  the 
panel  representing  the  art  of  Painting. 

You  have  in  that  bas-relief  one  of  the  foundation-stones  of 
the  most  perfectly-built  tower  in  Europe  ;  you  have  that  stone 
carved  by  its  architect's  own  hand  ;  you  find,  further,  that  this 

*  For  fust,  log  of  wood,  erroneously  'fer'in  the  later  printed  editions. 
Compare  the  account  of  the  works  of  Art  and  Nature,  towards  the  end 
of  the  Romance  of  the  Rose. 


280 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


architect  and  sculptor  was  the  greatest  painter  of  his  time, 
and  the  friend  of  the  greatest  poet ;  and  you  have  represented 
by  him  a  painter  in  his  shop, — bottega, — as  symbolic  of  the 
entire  art  of  painting. 

59.  In  which  representation,  please  note  how  carefully 
Giotto  shows  you  the  tabernacles,  or  niches,  in  which  the 
paintings  are  to  be  placed.  Not  independent  of  their  frames, 
these  panels  of  his,  you  see ! 

Have  you  ever  considered,  in  the  early  history  of  painting, 
how  important  also  is  the  history  of  the  frame  maker  ?  It  is 
a  matter,  I  assure  you,  needing  your  very  best  consideration. 
For  the  frame  was  made  before  the  picture.  The  painted 
window  is  much,  but  the  aperture  it  fills  was  thought  of  be- 
fore it.  The  fresco  by  Giotto  is  much,  but  the  vault  it  adorns 
was  planned  first.    Who  thought  of  these  ; — who  built  ? 

Questions  taking  us  far  back  before  the  birth  of  the  shep- 
herd boy  of  Fesole, — questions  not  to  be  answered  by  history 
of  painting  only,  still  less  of  painting  in  Italy  only. 

60.  And  in  pointing  out  to  you  this  fact,  I  may  once  for  all 
prove  to  you  the  essential  unity  of  the  arts,  and  show  you 
iiow  impossible  it  is  to  understand  one  without  reference  to 
another.  Which  I  wish  you  to  observe  all  the  more  closely, 
that  you  may  use,  without  danger  of  being  misled,  the  data, 
of  unequalled  value,  which  have  been  collected  by  Crowe  and 
Cavalcasella,  in  the  book  which  they  have  called  a  History  of 
Painting  in  Italy,  but  which  is  in  fact  only  a  dictionary  of  de- 
tails relating  to  that  history.  Such  a  title  is  an  absurdity  on 
the  face  of  it.  For,  first,  you  can  no  more  write  the  history 
of  painting  in  Italy  than  you  can  write  the  history  of  the 
south  wind  in  Italy.  The  sirocco  does  indeed  produce  cer- 
tain effects  at  Genoa,  and  others  at  Eome  ;  but  what  would  be 
the  value  of  a  treatise  upon  the  winds,  which,  for  the  honour 
of  any  country,  assumed  that  every  city  of  it  had  a  native 
sirocco  ? 

But,  further, — imagine  what  success  would  attend  the  me- 
teorologist who  should  set  himself  to  give  an  account  of  the 
south  wind,  but  take  no  notice  of  the  north ! 

And,  finally,  suppose  an  attempt  to  give  you  an  account  of 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  281 

either  wind,  but  none  of  the  seas,  or  mountain  passes,  by 
which  they  were  nourished,  or  directed. 

61.  For  instance,  I  am  in  this  course  of  lectures  to  give  you 
an  account  of  a  single  and  minor  branch  of  graphic  art, — en- 
graving. But  observe  how  many  references  to  local  circum- 
stances it  involves.  There  are  three  materials  for  it,  we  said  ; 
— stone,  wood,  and  metal.  Stone  engraving  is  the  art  of 
countries  possessing  marble  and  gems  ;  wood  engraving,  of 
countries  overgrown  with  forest ;  metal  engraving,  of  countries 
possessing  treasures  of  silver  and  gold.  And  the  style  of  a 
stone  engraver  is  formed  on  pillars  and  pyramids  ;  the  style 
of  a  wood  engraver  under  the  eaves  of  larch  cottages ;  the 
style  of  a  metal  engraver  in  the  treasuries  of  kings.  Do  you 
suppose  I  could  rightly  explain  to  you  the  value  of  a  single 
touch  on  brass  by  Finiguerra,  or  on  box  by  Bewick,  unless  I 
had  grasp  of  the  great  laws  of  climate  and  country;  and 
could  trace  the  inherited  sirocco  or  tramontana  of  thought  to 
which  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  men  owed  their  existence? 

62.  You  see  that  in  this  flag  of  1300  there  is  a  dark  strong 
line  in  the  centre,  against  which  you  read  the  name  of 
Arnolfo. 

In  writing  our  Florentine  Dunciad,  or  History  of  Fools,  can 
we  possibly  begin  with  a  better  day  than  All  Fools'  Day  ?  On 
All  Fools'  Day — the  first,  if  you  like  better  so  to  call  it,  of  the 
month  of  opening, — in  the  year  1300,  is  signed  the  document 
making  Arnolfo  a  citizen  of  Florence,  and  in  1310  he  dies, 
chief  master  of  the  works  of  the  Cathedral  there.  To  this 
man,  Crowe  and  Cavalcasella  give  half  a  page,  out  of  three 
volumes  of  five  hundred  pages  each. 

But  lower  down  in  my  flag,  (not  put  there  because  of  any 
inferiority,  but  by  order  of  chronology,)  you  will  see  a  name 
sufficiently  familiar  to  you — that  of  Giotto  ;  and  to  him,  our 
historians  of  painting  in  Italy  give  some  hundred  pages, 
under  the  impression,  stated  by  them  at  page  243  of  their 
volume,  that  "in  his  hands,  art  in  the  Peninsula  became  en- 
titled for  the  first  time  to  the  name  of  Italian." 

63.  Art  became  Italian  !  Yes,  but  what  art  ?  Your  authors 
give  a  perspective — or  what  they  call  such, — of  the  upper 


282 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


church  of  Assisi,  as  if  that  were  merely  an  accidental  occur- 
rence of  blind  walls  for  Giotto  to  paint  on  ! 

But  how  came  the  upper  church  of  Assisi  there  ?  How 
came  it  to  be  vaulted — to  be  aisled  ?  How  came  Giotto  to  be 
asked  to  paint  upon  it  ? 

The  art  that  built  it,  good  or  bad,  must  have  been  an  Italian 
one,  before  Giotto.  He  could  not  have  painted  on  the  air. 
Let  us  see  how  his  panels  were  made  for  him. 

64.  This  Captain — the  centre  of  our  first  group — Arnolfo, 
has  always  hitherto  been  called  '  Arnolfo  di  Lapo  ; ' — Arnolfo 
the  son  of  Lapo. 

Modern  investigators  come  down  on  us  delightedly,  to  tell 
us— Arnolfo  was  not  the  son  of  Lapo. 

In  these  days  you  will  have  half  a  dozen  doctors,  writing 
each  a  long  book,  and  the  sense  of  all  will  be, — Arnolfo  wasn't 
the  son  of  Lapo.    Much  good  may  you  get  of  that ! 

Well,  you  will  find  the  fact  to  be,  there  was  a  great  North- 
man builder,  a  true  son  of  Thor,  who  came  down  into  Italy 
in  1200,  served  the  order  of  St.  Francis  there,  built  Assisi, 
taught  Arnolfo  how  to  build,  with  Thor's  hammer,  and  disap- 
peared, leaving  his  name  uncertain — Jacopo — Lapo — nobody 
knows  what.  Arnolfo  always  recognizes  this  man  as  his  true 
father,  who  put  the  soul-life  into  him  ;  he  is  known  to  his 
Florentines  always  as  Lapo's  Arnolfo. 

That,  or  some  likeness  of  that,  is  the  vital  fact.  You  never 
can  get  at  the  literal  limitation  of  living  facts.  They  disguise 
themselves  by  the  very  strength  of  their  life  :  get  told  again 
and  again  in  different  ways  by  all  manner  of  people  ; — the 
literalness  of  them  is  turned  topsy-turvy,  inside-out,  over 
and  over  again  ; — then  the  fools  come  and  read  them  wrong 
side  upwards,  or  else,  say  there  never  was  a  fact  at  all.  Noth- 
ing delights  a  true  blockhead  so  much  as  to  prove  a  negative  ; — 
to  show  that  everybody  has  been  wrong.  Fancy  the  delicious 
sensation,  to  an  empty-headed  creature,  of  fancying  for  a 
moment  that  he  has  emptied  everybody  else's  head  as  well  as 
his  own !  nay,  that,  for  once,  his  own  hollow  bottle  of  a  head 
has  had  the  best  of  other  bottles,  and  has  been  first  empty  ; 
first  to  know — nothing. 


RELATION  OF  EN  QUA  VING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  283 


65.  Hold,  then,  steadily  the  first  tradition  about  this  Ar- 
nolfo.  That  his  real  father  was  called  "  Cambio  "  matters  to 
you  not  a  straw.  That  he  never  called  himself  Cambio's 
Amolfo — that  nobody  else  ever  called  him  so,  down  to 
Vasari's  time,  is  an  infinitely  significant  fact  to  you.  In  my 
twenty-second  letter  in  Fors  Clavigera  you  will  find  some  ac- 
count of  the  noble  habit  of  the  Italian  artists  to  call  them- 
selves by  their  masters'  names,  considering  their  master  as 
their  true  father.  If  not  the  name  of  the  master,  they  take 
that  of  their  native  place,  as  having  owed  the  character  of 
their  life  to  that.  They  rarely  take  their  own  family  name  : 
sometimes  it  is  not  even  known, — when  best  known,  it  is  un- 
familiar to  us.  The  great  Pisan  artists,  for  instance,  never 
bear  any  other  name  than  '  the  Pisan  ;  •  among  the  other  five- 
and-twenty  names  in  my  list,  not  above  six,  I  think,  the  two 
German,  with  four  Italian,  are  family  names.  Perugino, 
(Peter  of  Perugia),  Luini,  (Bernard  of  Luino),  Quercia, 
(James  of  Quercia),  Correggio,  (Anthony  of  Correggio),  are 
named  from  their  native  places.  Nobody  would  have  under- 
stood me  if  I  had  called  Giotto,  £  Ambrose  Bondone  ;  •  or 
Tintoret,  Bobusti  ;  or  even  Baphael,  Sanzio.  Botticelli  is 
named  from  his  master  ;  Ghiberti  from  his  father-in-law  ;  and 
Ghirlandajo  from  his  work.  Orcagna,  who  did,  for  a  wonder, 
name  himself  from  his  father,  Andrea  Cione,  of  Florence,  has 
been  always  called  c  Angel '  by  everybody  else  ;  while  Arnolfo, 
who  never  named  himself  from  his  father,  is  now  like  to  be 
fathered  against  his  will. 

But,  I  again  beg  of  you,  keep  to  the  old  story.  For  it 
represents,  however  inaccurately  in  detail,  clearly  in  sum, 
the  fact,  that  some  great  master  of  German  Gothic  at  this 
time  came  down  into  Italy,  and  changed  the  entire  form  of 
Italian  architecture  by  his  touch.  So  that  while  Niccola  and 
Giovanni  Pisano  are  still  virtually  Greek  artists,  experimen- 
tally introducing  Gothic  forms,  Arnolfo  and  Giotto  adopt  the 
entire  Gothic  ideal  of  form,  and  thenceforward  use  the  pointed 
arch  and  steep  gab]e  as  the  limits  of  sculpture. 

66.  Hitherto  I  have  been  speaking  of  the  relations  of  my 
twenty-five  men  to  each  other.    But  now,  please  note  their 


284 


ARIADNE  FLORENTTNA. 


relations  altogether  to  the  art  before  them.  These  twenty- 
five  include,  I  say,  all  the  great  masters  of  Christian  art. 

Before  them,  the  art  was  too  savage  to  be  Christian  ;  after- 
wards, too  carnal  to  be  Christian. 

Too  savage  to  be  Christian  ?  I  will  justify  that  assertion 
hereafter  ;  but  you  will  find  that  the  European  art  of  1200 
includes  ail  the  most  developed  and  characteristic  conditions 
of  the  style  in  the  north  which  you  have  probably  been  ac- 
customed to  think  of  as  Norman,  and  which  you  may  always 
most  conveniently  call  so  ;  and  the  most  developed  condi- 
tions of  the  style  in  the  south,  which,  formed  out  of  effete 
Greek,  Persian,  and  Roman  tradition,  you  may,  in  like  man- 
ner, most  conveniently  express  by  the  familiar  word  Byzantine. 
Whatever  you  call  them,  they  are  in  origin  adverse  in  temper, 
and  remain  so  up  to  the  year  1200.  Then  an  influence  ap- 
pears, seemingly  that  of  one  man,  Nicholas  the  Pisan,  (our 
first  Master,  observe,)  and  a  new  spirit  adopts  what  is  best 
in  each,  and  gives  to  what  it  adopts  a  new  energy  of  its  own, 
namely,  this  conscientious  and  didactic  power  which  is  the 
speciality  of  its  progressive  existence.  And  just  as  the  new- 
born and  natural  art  of  Athens  collects  and  reanimates  Pelas- 
gian  and  Egyptian  tradition,  purifying  their  worship,  and 
perfecting  their  work,  into  the  living  heathen  faith  of  the 
world,  so  this  new-born  and  natural  art  of  Florence  collects 
and  animates  the  Norman  and  Byzantine  tradition,  and  forms 
out  of  the  perfected  worship  and  work  of  both,  the  honest 
Christian  faith,  and  vital  craftsmanship,  of  the  world. 

67.  Get  this  first  summary,  therefore,  well  into  your  minds. 
The  word  £  Norman '  I  use  roughly  for  North-savage  ; — 
roughly,  but  advisedly.  I  mean  Lombard,  Scandinavian, 
Frankish ;  everything  north-savage  that  you  can  think  of, 
except  Saxon.  (I  have  a  reason  for  that  exception  ;  never 
mind  it  just  now.)  * 

*  Of  course  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  express  in  any  accurate 
terms,  short  enough  for  the  compass  of  a  lecture,  the  conditions  of  op- 
position between  the  Heptarchy  and  the  Northmen  ; — between  the  By- 
zantine and  Roman  ; — and  between  the  Byzantine  and  Arab,  which  form 
minor,  but  not  less  trenchant,  divisions  of  Art-province,  for  subsequent- 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  285 


All  north- savage  I  call  Norman,  all  south-savage  I  call  By- 
zantine ;  this  latter  including  dead  native  Greek  primarily — 
then  dead  foreign  Greek,  in  Rome  ; — then  Arabian — Persian 
— Phoenician — Indian — all  }rou  can  think  of,  in  art  of  hot 
countries,  up  to  this  year  1200,  I  rank  under  the  one  term 
Byzantine.  Now  all  this  cold  art — Norman,  and  all  this  hot 
art — Byzantine,  is  virtually  dead,  till  1200.  It  has  no  con- 
science, no  didactic  power  ;  *  it  is  devoid  of  both,  in  the  sense 
that  dreams  are. 

Then  in  the  13th  century,  men  wake  as  if  they  heard  an 
alarum  through  the  whole  vault  of  heaven,  and  true  human 
life  begins  again,  and  the  cradle  of  this  life  is  the  Val  d'Arno. 
There  the  northern  and  southern  nations  meet ;  there  they  lay 
down  their  enmities  ;  there  they  are  first  baptized  unto  John's 
baptism  for  the  remission  of  sins  ;  there  is  born,  and  thence 
exiled, — thought  faithless  for  breaking  the  font  of  baptism  to 
save  a  child  from  drowning,  in  his  *  bel  San  Giovanni,'  — the 
greatest  of  Christian  poets  ;  he  who  had  pity  even  for  the  lost. 

68.  Now,  therefore,  my  whole  history  of  Christian  architect- 
ure and  painting  begins  with  this  Baptistery  of  Florence,  and 
with  its  associated  Cathedral.  Arnolfo  brought  the  one  into 
the  form  in  which  you  now  see  it ;  he  laid  the  foundation  of 
the  other,  and  that  to  purpose,  and  he  is  therefore  the  Captain 
of  our  first  school. 

For  this  Florentine  Baptistery  f  is  the  great  one  of  the 
world.    Here  is  the  centre  of  Christian  knowledge  and  power. 

delineation.  If  you  can  refer  to  my  4 '  Stones  of  Venice,"  see  §  20  of  its 
first  chapter. 

*  Again  much  too  broad  a  statement :  not  to  be  qualified  but  by  a 
length  of  explanation  here  impossible.  My  lectures  on  Architecture, 
now  in  preparation,  will  contain  further  detail. 

f  At  the  side  of  my  page,  here,  I  find  the  following  memorandum, 
which  was  expanded  in  the  viva-voce  lecture.  The  reader  must  make 
what  he  can  of  it,  for  I  can't  expand  it  here. 

Sense  of  Italian  Church  plan. 

Baptistery,  to  make  Christians  in  ;  house,  or  dome,  for  them  to  pray 
and  be  preached  to  in  ;  beli-tower,  to  ring  all  over  the  town,  when  they 
were  either  to  pray  together,  rejoice  together,  or  to  be  warned  of  danger. 

Harvey's  picture  of  the  Covenanters,  with  a  shepherd  on  the  outlook, 
as  a  campanile. 


286 


ARIADNE  FL  OHENTINA . 


And  it  is  one  piece  of  large  engraving.  White  substance, 
cut  into,  and  filled  with  black,  and  dark-green. 

No  more  perfect  work  was  afterwards  done  ;  and  I  wish 
you  to  grasp  the  idea  of  this  building  clearly  and  irrevocably, 
— first,  in  order  (as  I  told  you  in  a  previous  lecture)  to  quit 
yourselves  thoroughly  of  the  idea  that  ornament  should  be 
decorated  construction  ;  and,  secondly,  as  the  noblest  type  of 
the  intaglio  ornamentation,  which  developed  itself  into  all 
minor  application  of  black  and  white  to  engraving. 

69.  That  it  should  do  so  first  at  Florence,  was  the  natural 
sequence,  and  the  just  reward,  of  the  ancient  skill  of  Etruria 
in  chased  metal- work.  The  effects  produced  in  gold,  either 
by  embossing  or  engraving,  were  the  direct  means  of  giving 
interest  to  his  surfaces  at  the  command  of  the  '  auri  faber,'  or 
orfevre  :  and  every  conceivable  artifice  of  studding,  chiselling, 
and  interlacing  was  exhausted  by  the  artists  in  gold,  who  were 
at  the  head  of  the  metal-workers,  and  from  whom  the  ranks 
of  the  sculptors  were  reinforced. 

The  old  French  word  £  orfroiz,'  (aurifrigia,)  expresses  essen- 
tially what  we  call  £  frosted '  work  in  gold  ;  that  which  resem- 
bles small  dew  or  crystals  of  hoar-frost ;  the  £  frigia '  coming 
from  the  Latin  frigus.  To  chase,  or  enchase,  is  not  properly 
said  of  the  gold  ;  but  of  the  jewel  which  it  secures  with  hoops 
or  ridges,  (French,  ettchassei,::).  Then  tho  armourer,  or  cup 
and  casket  maker,  added  to  this  kind  of  decoration  that  of 
flat  inlaid  enamel ;  and  the  silver-worker,  finding  that  the 
raised  filigree  (still  a  staple  at  Genoa)  only  attracted  tarnish, 
or  got  crushed,  early  sought  to  decorate  a  surface  which 
would  bear  external  friction,  with  labyrinths  of  safe  inci- 
sion. 

70.  Of  the  security  of  incision  as  a  means  of  permanent 
decoration,  as  opposed  to  ordinary  carving,  here  is  a  beautiful 
instance  in  the  base  of  one  of  the  external  shafts  of  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Lucca  ;  J  3th-century  work,  which  by  this  time,  had  it 
been  carved  in  relief,  would  have  been  a  shapeless  remnant  of 
indecipherable  bosses.  But  it  is  still  as  safe  as  if  it  had  been 
cut  yesterday,  because  the  smooth  round  mass  of  the  pillar  is 

*  And  'chassis,'  a  window  frame,  or  tracery. 


RELATION  OF  ENGRAVING  TO  OTHER  ARTS.  287 

entirely  undisturbed  ;  into  that,  furrows  are  cut  with  a  chisel 
as  much  under  command  and  as  powerful  as  a  burin.  The 
effect  of  the  design  is  trusted  entirely  to  the  depth  of  these 
incisions — here  dying  out  and  expiring  in  the  light  of  the 
marble,  there  deepened,  by  drill  holes,  into  as  definitely  a 
black  line  as  if  it  were  drawn  with  ink  ;  and  describing  the 
outline  of  the  leafage  with  a  delicacy  of  touch  and  of  percep- 
tion which  no  man  will  ever  surpass,  and  which  very  few  have 
rivalled,  in  the  proudest  days  of  design. 

71.  This  security,  in  silver  plates,  was  completed  by  filling  the 
furrows  with  the  black  paste  which  at  once  exhibited  and  pre- 
served them.  The  transition  from  that  niello-work  to  modern 
engraving  is  one  of  no  real  moment :  my  object  is  to  make 
3^ou  understand  the  qualities  which  constitute  the  merit  of  the 
engraving,  whether  charged  with  niello  or  ink.  And  this  I 
hope  ultimately  to  accomplish  by  studying  with  you  some  of 
the  works  of  the  four  men,  Botticelli  and  Mantegna  in  the 
south,  Durer  and  Holbein  in  the  north,  whose  names  I  have 
put  in  our  last  flag,  above  and  beneath  those  of  the  three 
mighty  painters,  Perugino  the  captain,  Bellini  on  one  side — 
Luini  on  the  other. 

The  four  following  lectures  *  will  contain  data  necessary  for 
such  study  :  you  must  wait  longer  before  I  can  place  before 
you  those  by  which  I  can  justify  what  must  greatly  surprise 
some  of  my  audience — my  having  given  Perugino  the  captain's 
place  among  the  three  painters. 

72.  But  I  do  so,  at  least  primarily,  because  what  is  com- 
monly thought  affected  in  his  design  is  indeed  the  true  re- 
mains of  the  great  architectural  symmetry  which  wTas  soon  to 
be  lost,  and  which  malieo  him  the  true  follower  of  Arnolfo  and 
Brunelleschi ;  and  because  he  is  a  sound  craftsman  and  work- 
man to  the  very  heart's  core.  A  noblo,  gracious,  and  quiet 
labourer  from  youth  to  death, — never  weary,  never  impatient, 

*  This  present  lecture  does  not,  as  at  present  published,  justify  its 
title  ;  because  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  write  the  viva-voce 
portions  of  it  which  amplified  the  69th  paragraph.  I  will  give  the  sub- 
stance of  them  in  bettor  form  elsewhere  ;  meantime  the  part  of  the 
lecture  here  given  may  be  in  its  own  way  useful. 


288 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


never  untencler,  never  untrue.  Not  Tintoret  in  power,  not 
Raphael  in  flexibility,  not  Holbein  in  veracity,  not  Luini  in 
love, — their  gathered  gifts  he  has,  in  balanced  and  fruitful 
measure,  fit  to  be  the  guide,  and  impulse,  and  father  of  all. 


LECTURE  in. 

THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING. 

73.  I  am  to-day  to  begin  to  tell  you  what  it  is  necessary 
you  should  observe  respecting  methods  of  manual  execution 
in  the  two  great  arts  of  engraving.  Only  to  begin  to  tell  you. 
There  need  be  no  end  of  telling  you  such  things,  if  you  care 
to  hear  them.  The  theory  of  art  is  soon  mastered  ;  but  £  clal 
detto  al  fatto,  v'e  gran  tratto  ; '  and  as  I  have  several  times 
told  you  in  former  lectures,  every  day  shows  me  more  and 
more  the  importance  of  the  Hand. 

74  Of  the  hand  as  a  Servant,  observe, — not  of  the  hand  as 
a  Master.  For  there  are  two  great  kinds  of  manual  work  : 
one  in  which  the  hand  is  continually  receiving  and  obeying 
orders  ;  the  other  in  which  it  is  acting  independently,  or  even 
giving  orders  of  its  own.  And  the  dependent  and  submis- 
sive hand  is  a  noble  hand  ;  but  the  independent  or  imperative 
hand  is  a  vile  one. 

That  is  to  say,  as  long  as  the  pen,  or  chisel,  or  other 
graphic  instrument,  is  moved  under  the  direct  influence  of 
mental  attention,  and  obeys  orders  of  the  brain,  it  is  work- 
ing nobly  ;  the  moment  it  moves  independently  of  them,  and 
performs  some  habitual  dexterity  of  its  own,  it  is  base. 

75.  Dexterity — I  say  ; — some  i  right-handedness  '  of  its  own. 
We  might  wisely  keep  that  word  for  what  the  hand  does  at 
the  mind's  bidding  ;  and  use  an  opposite  word — sinisterity, 
— for  what  it  does  at  its  own.  For  indeed  we  want  such  a 
word  in  speaking  of  modern  art ; — it  is  all  full  of  sinisterity. 
Hands  independent  of  brains ; — the  left  hand,  by  division  of 
labour,  not  knowing  what  the  right  does, — still  less  what  it 
ought  to  do. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  289 


76.  Turning,  then,  to  our  special  subject.  All  engraving,  I 
said,  is  intaglio  in  the  solid.  But  the  solid,  in  wood  engrav- 
ing, is  a  coarse  substance,  easily  cut ;  and  in  metal,  a  fine 
substance,  not  easily.  Therefore,  in  general,  you  may  be  pre- 
pared to  accept  ruder  and  more  elementary  work  in  one  than 
the  other  ;  and  it  will  be  the  means  of  appeal  to  blunter 
minds. 

You  probably  already  know  the  difference  between  the 
actual  methods  of  producing  a  printed  impression  from  wood 
and  metal  ;  but  I  may  perhaps  make  the  matter  a  little  more 
clear.  In  metal  engraving,  you  cut  ditches,  fill  them  with 
ink,  and  press  your  paper  into  them.  In  wood  engraving, 
you  leave  ridges,  rub  the  tops  of  them  with  ink,  and  stamp 
them  on  your  paper. 

The  instrument  with  which  the  substance,  whether  of  the 
wood  or  steel,  is  cut  away,  is  the  same.  It  is  a  solid  plough- 
share, which,  instead  of  throwing  the  earth  aside,  throws  it 
up  and  out,  producing  at  first  a  simple  ravine,  or  furrow,  in 
the  wood  or  metal,  which  you  can  widen  by  another  cut,  or 
extend  by  successive  cuts.  This  (Fig.  1)  is  the  general  shape 
of  the  solid  ploughshare  : 


but  it  is  of  course  made  sharper  or  blunter  at  pleasure.  The 
furrow  produced  is  at  first  the  wedge-shaped  or  cuneiform 
ravine,  already  so  much  dwelt  upon  in  my  lectures  on  Greek 
sculpture. 

77.  Since,  then,  in  wood  printing,  you  print  from  the  sur- 
face left  solid  ;  and,  in  metal  printing,  from  the  hollows  cut 
into  it,  it  follows  that  if  you  put  few  touches  on  wood,  you 
draw,  as  on  a  slate,  with  white  lines,  leaving  a  quantity  of 
black  ;  but  if  you  put  few  touches  on  metal,  you  draw  with 
black  lines,  leaving  a  quantity  of  white. 

Now  the  eye  is  not  in  the  least  offended  by  quantity  of 
white,  but  is,  or  ought  to  be,  greatly  saddened  and  offended 


'fig.  i. 


290 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


by  quantity  of  black.  Hence  it  follows  that  you  must  never 
put  little  work  on  wood.  You  must  not  sketch  upon  it. 
You  may  sketch  on  metal  as  much  as  you  please. 

78.  "  Paradox,"  you  will  say,  as  usual.  "  Are  not  all  our 
journals, — and  the  best  of  them,  Punch,  par  excellence, — full 
of  the  most  brilliantly,  swift  and  slight  sketches,  engraved  on 
wood  ;  while  line-engravings  take  ten  years  to  produce,  and 
cost  ten  guineas  each  when  they  are  done  ? 

Yes,  that  is  so  ;  but  observe,  in  the  first  place,  what  ap- 
pears to  you  a  sketch  on  wood  is  not  so  at  all,  but  a  most  la- 
borious and  careful  imitation  of  a  sketch  on  paper  ;  whereas 
when  you  see  what  appears  to  be  a  sketch  on  metal,  it  is  one. 
And  in  the  second  place,  so  far  as  the  popular  fashion  is  con- 
trary to  this  natural  method, — so  far  as  we  do  in  reality  try 
to  produce  effects  of  sketching  in  wood,  and  of  finish  in 
metal, — our  work  is  wrong. 

Those  apparently  careless  and  free  sketches  on  the  wood 
ought  to  have  been  stern  and  deliberate  ;  those  exquisitely 
toned  and  finished  engravings  on  metal  ought  to  have  looked, 
instead,  like  free  ink  sketches  on  white  paper.  That  is  the 
theorem  which  I  propose  to  you  for  consideration,  and  which, 
in  the  two  branches  of  its  assertion,  I  hope  to  prove  to  you  ; 
the  first  part  of  it,  (that  wood-cutting  should  be  careful,)  in 
this  present  lecture  ;  the  second,  (that  metal-cutting  should 
be?  at  least  in  a  far  greater  degree,  than  it  is  now,  slight,  and 
free,)  in  the  following  one. 

79.  Next,  observe  the  distinction  in  respect  of  thickness,  no 
less  than  number,  of  lines  which  may  properly  be  used  in  the 
two  methods. 

In  metal  engraving,  it  is  easier  to  lay  a  fine  line  than  a  thick 
one  ;  and  however  fine  the  line  may  be,  it  lasts  ; — but  in  wood 
engraving  it  requires  extreme  precision  and  skill  to  leave  a 
thin  dark  line,  and  when  left,  it  will  be  quickly  beaten  down 
by  a  careless  printer.  Therefore,  the  virtue  of  wood  engrav- 
ing is  to  exhibit  the  qualities  and  power  of  thick  lines  ;  and  of 
metal  engraving,  to  exhibit  the  qualities  and  power  of  thin 
ones. 

All  thin  dark  lines,  therefore,  in  wood,  broadly  speaking, 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  291 


are  to  be  used  only  in  case  of  necessity  ;  and  thick  lines,  on 
metal,  only  in  case  of  necessity. 

80.  Though,  however,  thin  dark  lines  cannot  easily  be  pro- 
duced in  wood,  thin  light  ones  may  be  struck  in  an  instant 
Nevertheless,  even  thin  light  ones  must  not  be  used,  except 
with  extreme  caution.  For  observe,  they  are  equally  useless 
as  outline,  and  for  expression  of  mass.  You  know  how  far 
from  exemplary  or  delightful  your  boy's  first  quite  voluntary 
exercises  in  white  line  drawing  on  your  slate  were?  You 
could,  indeed,  draw  a  goblin  satisfactorily  in  such  method  ; — 
a  round  O,  with  arms  and  legs  fco  it,  and  a  scratch  under  two 
dots  in  the  middle,  would  answer  the  purpose  ;  but  if  you 
wanted  to  draw  a  pretty  face,  you  took  pencil  or  pen,  and 
paper — not  your  slate.  Now,  that  instinctive  feeling  that  a 
white  outline  is  wrong,  is  deeply  founded.  For  Nature  her- 
self draws  with  diffused  light,  and  concentrated  dark  ; — never, 
except  in  storm  or  twilight,  with  diffused  dark,  and  con- 
centrated light ;  and  the  thing  we  all  like  best  to  see  drawn — 
the  human  face — cannot  be  drawn  with  white  touches,  but  by 
extreme  labour.  For  the  pupil  and  iris  of  the  eye,  the  eye- 
brow, the  nostril,  and  the  lip  are  all  set  in  dark  on  pale 
ground.  You  can't  draw  a  white  eyebrow,  a  white  pupil  of 
the  eye,  a  white  nostril,  and  a  white  mouth,  on  a  dark  ground. 
Try  it,  and  see  what  a  spectre  you  get.  But  the  same  number 
of  dark  touches,  skilfully  applied,  will  give  the  idea  of  a  beau- 
tiful face.  And  what  is  true  of  the  subtlest  subject  you  have 
to  represent,  is  equally  true  of  inferior  ones.  Nothing  lovely 
can  be  quickly  represented  by  white  touches.  You  must  hew 
out,  if  your  means  are  so  restricted,  the  form  by  sheer  labour  ; 
and  that  both  cunning  and  dextrous.  The  Florentine  mas- 
ters, and  Durer,  often  practise  the  achievement,  and  there  are 
many  drawings  by  the  Lippis,  Mantegna,  and  other  leading 
Italian  draughtsmen,  completed  to  great  perfection  with  the 
white  line  ;  but  only  for  the  sake  of  severest  study,  nor  is 
their  work  imitable  by  inferior  men.  And  such  studies,  how- 
ever accomplished,  always  mark  a  disposition  to  regard 
chiaroscuro  too  much,  and  local  colour  too  little. 

We  conclude,  then,  that  we  must  never  trust,  in  wood,  to 


292 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


our  power  of  outline  with  white  ;  and  our  general  laws,  thus 
far  determined,  will  be — thick  lines  in  wood  ;  thin  ones  in 
metal ;  complete  drawing  on  wood  ;  sketches,  if  we  choose, 
on  metal. 

81.  But  why,  in  wood,  lines  at  all?  Why  not  cut  out 
white  spaces,  and  use  the  chisel  as  if  its  incisions  were  so 
much  white  paint?  Many  fine  pieces  of  wood-cutting  are 
indeed  executed  on  this  principle.  Bewick  does  nearly  all  his 
foliage  so  ;  and  continually  paints  the  light  plumes  of  his  birds 
"with  single  touches  of  his  chisel,  as  if  he  were  laying  on  white. 

But  this  is  not  the  finest  method  of  wood-cutting.  It  im- 
plies the  idea  of  a  system  of  light  and  shade  in  which  the 
shadow  is  totally  black.  Now,  no  light  and  shade  can  be 
good,  much  less  pleasant,  in  which  all  the  shade  is  stark 
black.  Therefore  the  finest  wood-cutting  ignores  light  and 
shade,  and  expresses  only  form,  and  dark  local  colour.  And 
it  is  convenient,  for  simplicity's  sake,  to  anticipate  wThat  I 
should  otherwise  defer  telling  you  until  next  lecture,  that  fine 
metal  engraving,  like  fine  wood-cutting,  ignores  light  and 
shade  ;  and  that,  in  a  word,  all  good  engraving  whatsoever 
does  so. 

82.  I  hope  that  my  saying  so  will  make  you  eager  to  inter- 
rupt me.  c  What !  Rembrandt's  etchings,  and  Lupton's  mez- 
zotints, and  Le  Keux's  line- work, — do  you  mean  to  tell  us 
that  these  ignore  light  and  shade  ? 5 

I  never  said  that  mezzotint  ignored  light  and  shade,  or 
ought  to  do  so.  Mezzotint  is  properly  to  be  considered  as 
chiaroscuro  drawing  on  metal.  But  I  do  mean  to  tell  you 
that  both  Rembrandt's  etchings,  and  Le  Keux's  finished  iine- 
wrork,  are  misapplied  labour,  in  so  far  as  they  regard  chiaro- 
scuro ;  and  that  consummate  engraving  never  uses  it  as  a 
primal  element  of  pleasure. 

83.  We  have  now  got  our  principles  so  far  defined  that  I 
can  proceed  to  illustration  of  them  by  example. 

Here  are  facsimiles,  very  marvellous  ones,*  of  two  of  the 

*  By  Mr.  Burgess.  The  toil  and  skill  necessary  to  produce  a  fac- 
simile of  this  degree  of  precision  will  only  be  recognized  by  the  reader 
who  has  had  considerable  experience  of  actual  work. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  ViOOH  ENGRAVING.  293 


best  wood  engravings  ever  produced  by  art, — two  subjects  in 
Holbein's  Dance  of  Death.  You  will  probably  like  best  that 
I  should  at  once  proceed  to  verify  my  last  and  most  startling 
statement,  that  fine  engraving  disdained  chiaroscuro. 

This  vignette  (Fig.  2)  represents  a  sunset  in  the  open 
mountainous  fields  of  southern  Germany.  And  Holbein  is 
so  entirely  careless  about  the  light  and  shade,  which  a  Dutch- 
man wrould  first  have  thought  of,  as  resulting  from  the  sunset, 
that,  as  he  works,  he  forgets  altogether  where  his  light  comes 
from.  Here,  actually,  the  shadow  of  the  figure  is  cast  from 
the  side,  right  across  the  picture,  while  the  sun  is  in  front. 
And  there  is  not  the  slightest  attempt  to  indicate  gradation 
of  light  in  the  sky,  darkness  in  the  forest,  or  any  other  positive 
element  of  chiaroscuro. 

This  is  not  because  Holbein  cannot  give  chiaroscuro  if  he 
chooses.  He  is  twenty  times  a  stronger  master  of  it  than 
Kembrandt ;  but  he,  therefore,  knows  exactly  when  and  how 
to  use  it ;  and  that  wood  engraving  is  not  the  proper  means 
for  it.  The  quantity  of  it  which  is  needful  for  his  story,  and 
will  not,  by  any  sensational  violence,  either  divert,  or  vulgarly 
enforce,  the  attention,  he  will  give  ;  and  that  with  an  unriv- 
alled subtlety.  Therefore  I  must  ask  you  for  a  moment  or  two 
to  quit  the  subject  of  technics,  and  look  what  these  two 
woodcuts  mean. 

84.  The  one  I  have  first  shown  you  is  of  a  ploughman 
ploughing  at  evening.  It  is  Holbein's  object,  here,  to  express 
the  diffused  and  intense  light  of  a  golden  summer  sunset,  so 
far  as  is  consistent  with  grander  purposes.  A  modern  French 
or  English  chiaroscurist  would  have  covered  his  sky  with 
fleecy  clouds,  and  relieved  the  ploughman's  hat  and  his  horses 
against  it  in  strong  black,  and  put  sparkling  touches  on  the 
furrows  and  grass.  Holbein  scornfully  casts  all  such  tricks 
aside  ;  and  draws  the  whole  scene  in  pure  white,  with  simple 
outlines. 

85.  And  yet,  when  I  put  it  beside  this  second  vignette, 
(Fig.  3),  which  is  of  a  preacher  preaching  in  a  feebly- lighted 
church,  you  will  feel  that  the  diffused  warmth  of  the  one  sub- 
ject, and  diffused  twilight  in  the  other,  are  complete  ;  and 


294 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TINA . 


they  will  finally  be  to  you  more  impressive  than  if  they  had 
been  wrought  out  with  every  superficial  means  of  effect,  on 
each  block. 

For  it  is  as  a  symbol,  not  as  a  scenic  effect,  that  in  each 
case  the  chiaroscuro  is  given.  Holbein,  I  said,  is  at  the  head 
of  the  painter-reformers,  and  his  Dance  of  Death  is  the  most 
energetic  and  telling  of  all  the  forms  given,  in  this  epoch,  to 
the  Rationalist  spirit  of  reform,  preaching  the  new  Gospel  of 
Death, —  "It  is  no  matter  whether  you  are  priest  or  layman, 
what  you  believe,  or  what  you  do  :  here  is  the  end."  You 
shall  see,  in  the  course  of  our  inquiry,  that  Botticelli,  in  like 
manner,  represents  the  Faithful  and  Catholic  temper  of  re- 
form. 

86.  The  teaching  of  Holbein  is  therefore  always  melancholy, 
— for  the  most  part  purely  rational  ;  and  entirely  furious  in 
its  indignation  against  all  who,  either  by  actual  injustice  in 
this  life,  or  by  what  he  holds  to  be  false  promise  of  another, 
destroy  the  good,  or  the  energy,  of  the  few  days  which  man 
has  to  live.  Against  the  rich,  the  luxurious,  the  Pharisee,  the 
false  lawyer,  the  priest,  and  the  unjust  judge,  Holbein  uses 
his  fiercest  mockery ;  but  he  is  never  himself  unjust ;  never 
caricatures  or  equivocates  ;  gives  the  facts  as  he  knows  them, 
with  explanatory  symbols,  few  and  clear. 

87.  Among  the  powers  which  he  hates,  the  pathetic  and 
ingenious  preaching  of  untruth  is  one  of  the  chief  ;  and  it  is 
curious  to  find  his  biographer,  knowing  this,  and  reasoning, 
as  German  critics  nearly  always  do,  from  acquired  knowledge, 
not  perception,  imagine  instantly  that  he  sees  hypocrisy  in 
the  face  of  Holbein's  preacher.  "How  skilfully/'  says  Dr. 
Woltmann,  "  is  the  preacher  propounding  his  doctrines  ;  how 
thoroughly  is  his  hypocrisy  expressed  in  the  features  of  his 
countenance,  and  in  the  gestures  of  his  hands."  But  look  at 
the  cut  yourself,  candidly.  I  challenge  you  to  find  the  slight- 
est trace  of  hypocrisy  in  either  feature  or  gesture.  Holbein 
knew  better.  It  is  not  the  hypocrite  who  has  power  in  the 
pulpit.  It  is  the  sincere  preacher  of  untruth  who  does  mis- 
chief there.  The  hypocrite's  place  of  power  is  in  trade,  or  in 
general  society  ;  none  but  the  sincere  ever  get  fatal  influence 


THE  TECHNICS  OF   WOOD  ENGRAVING.  295 


in  the  pulpit.  This  man  is  a  refined  gentleman — ascetic, 
earnest,  thoughtful,  and  kind.  He  scarcely  uses  the  vantage 
even  of  his  pulpit, — comes  aside  out  of  it,  as  an  eager  man 
would,  pleading  ;  he  is  intent  on  being  understood — is  under- 
stood ;  his  congregation  are  delighted — you  might  hear  a  pin 
drop  among  them  :  one  is  asleep  indeed,  who  cannot  see  him, 
(being  under  the  pulpit,)  and  asleep  just  because  the  teacher 
is  as  gentle  as  he  is  earnest,  and  speaks  quietly. 

88.  How  are  we  to  know,  then,  that  he  speaks  in  vain  ? 
First,  because  among  all  his  hearers  you  will  not  find  one 
shrewd  face.  They  are  all  either  simple  or  stupid  people  : 
there  is  one  nice  woman  in  front  of  all,  (else  Holbein's  repre- 
sentation had  been  caricature,)  but  she  is  not  a  shrewd  one. 

Secondly,  by  the  light  and  shade.  The  church  is  not  in  ex- 
treme darkness — far  from  that ;  a  grey  twilight  is  over  every- 
thing, but  the  sun  is  totally  shut  out  of  it ; — not  a  ray  comes 
in  even  at  the  window — that  is  darker  than  the  walls,  or  vault. 

Lastly,  and  chiefly,  by  the  mocking  expression  of  Death. 
Mocking,  but  not  angry.  The  man  has  been  preaching  what 
he  thought  true.  Death  laughs  at  him,  but  is  not  indignant 
with  him. 

Death  comes  quietly  :  /am  going  to  be  preacher  now  ;  here 
is  your  own  hour-glass,  ready  for  me.  You  have  spoken  many 
words  in  your  day.  But  "  of  the  things  which  you  have  spoken, 
this  is  the  sum," — your  death-warrant,  signed  and  sealed. 
There's  your  text  for  to-day. 

89.  Of  this  other  picture,  the  meaning  is  more  plain,  and 
far  more  beautiful.  The  husbandman  is  old  and  gaunt,  and 
has  past  his  days,  not  in  speaking,  but  pressing  the  iron  into 
the  ground.  And  the  payment  for  his  life's  work  is,  that  he 
is  clothed  in  rags,  and  his  feet  are  bare  on  the  clods  ;  and  he 
has  no  hat — but  the  brim  of  a  hat  only,  and  his  long,  unkempt 
grey  hair  comes  through.  But  all  the  air  is  full  of  warmth 
and  of  peace  ;  and,  beyond  his  village  church,  there  is,  at  last, 
light  indeed.  His  horses  lag  in  the  furrow,  and  his  own 
limbs  totter  and  fail :  but  one  comes  to  help  him.  4  It  is  a 
long  field,'  says  Death  ;  6  but  we'll  get  to  the  end  of  it  to-day, 
— you  and  I.' 


296 


ARIADNE  FLOTtENTINA. 


90.  And  now  that  we  know  the  meaning,  we  are  able  to 
discuss  the  technical  qualities  farther. 

Both  of  these  engravings,  you  will  find,  are  executed  with 
blunt  lines  ;  but  more  than  that,  they  are  executed  with  quiet 
lines,  entirely  steady. 

Now,  here  I  have  in  my  hand  a  lively  woodcut  of  the  pres- 
ent day — a  good  average  type  of  the  modern  style  of  wood- 
cutting, which  you  will  all  recognize.* 

The  shade  in  this  is  drawn  on  the  wood  (not  cut,  but  drawn, 
observe,)  at  the  rate  of  at  least  ten  lines  in  a  second  :  Hol- 
bein's at  the  rate  of  about  one  line  in  three  seconds,  f 

91.  Now  there  are  two  different  matters  to  be  considered 
with  respect  to  these  two  opposed  methods  of  execution. 
The  first,  that  the  rapid  work,  though  easy  to  the  artist,  is 
very  difficult  to  the  woodcutter  ;  so  that  it  implies  instantly 
a  separation  between  the  two  crafts,  and  that  your  wood  en- 
graver has  ceased  to  be  a  draughtsman.  I  shall  return  to 
this  point.  I  wish  to  insist  on  the  other  first ;  namely,  the 
effect  of  the  more  deliberative  method  on  the  drawing  itself. 

92.  When  the  hand  moves  at  the  rate  of  ten  lines  in  a 
second,  it  is  indeed  under  the  government  of  the  muscles  of 
the  wrist  and  shoulder  ;  but  it  cannot  possibly  be  under  the 
complete  government  of  the  brains.  I  am  able  to  do  this 
zigzag  line  evenly,  because  I  have  got  the  use  of  the  hand 
from  practice  ;  and  the  faster  it  is  done,  the  evener  it  will  be. 
But  I  have  no  mental  authority  over  every  line  I  thus  lay  : 
chance  regulates  them.  Whereas,  when  I  draw  at  the  rate  of 
two  or  three  seconds  to  each  line,  my  hand  disobeys  the  mus- 
cles a  little — the  mechanical  accuracy  is  not  so  great ;  nay, 
there  ceases  to  be  any  appearance  of  dexterity  at  all.  But 
there  is,  in  reality,  more  manual  skill  required  in  the  slow 
work  than  in  the  swift, — and  all  the  while  the  hand  is 
thoroughly  under  the  orders  of  the  brains.  Holbein  deliber- 
ately resolves,  for  every  line,  as  it  goes  along,  that  it  shall  be 

*  The  ordinary  title-page  of  Punch. 

f  In  the  lecture-room,  the  relative  rates  of  execution  were  shown;  I 
arrived  at  this  estimate  by  timing  the  completion  of  two  small  pieces  of 
ghade  in  the  two  methods. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  297 


so  thick,  so  far  from  the  next, — that  it  shall  begin  here,  and 
stop  there.  And  he  is  deliberately  assigning  the  utmost 
quantity  of  meaning  to  it,  that  a  line  will  carry. 

93.  It  is  not  fair,  however,  to  compare  common  work  of 
one  age  with  the  best  of  another.  Here  is  a  woodcut  of  Ten- 
niel's,  which  I  think  contains  as  high  qualities  as  it  is  possible 
to  find  in  modern  art*  I  hold  it  as  beyond  others  fine,  be- 
cause  there  is  not  the  slightest  caricature  in  it.  No  face,  no 
attitude,  is  pushed  beyond  the  degree  of  natural  humour  they 
would  have  possessed  in  life  ;  and  in  precision  of  momentary 
expression,  the  drawing  is  equal  to  the  art  of  any  time,  and 
shows  power  which  would,  if  regulated,  be  quite  adequate  to 
producing  an  immortal  work. 

94.  Why,  then,  is  it  not  immortal  ?  You  yourselves,  in 
compliance  with  whose  demand  it  was  done,  forgot  it  the 
next  week.  It  will  become  historically  interesting  ;  but  no 
man  of  true  knowledge  and  feeling  will  ever  keep  this  in  his 
cabinet  of  treasure,  as  he  does  these  woodcuts  of  Holbein's. 

The  reason  is  that  this  is  base  coin, — alloyed  gold.  There 
is  gold  in  it,  but  also  a  quantity  of  brass  and  lead — wilfully 
added — to  make  it  fit  for  the  public.  Holbein's  is  beaten 
gold,  seven  times  tried  in  the  fire.  Of  which  commonplace 
but  useful  metaphor  the  meaning  here  is,  first,  that  to  catch 
the  vulgar  eye  a  quantity  of, — so-called, — light  and  shade  is 
added  by  Tenniel.  It  is  effective  to  an  ignorant  eye,  and  is 
ingeniously  disposed  ;  but  it  is  entirely  conventional  and  false, 
unendurable  by  any  person  who  knows  what  chiaroscuro  is. 

Secondly,  for  one  line  that  Holbein  lays,  Tenniel  has  a 
dozen.  There  are,  for  instance,  a  hundred  and  fifty-seven 
lines  in  Sir  Peter  Teazle's  wig,  without  counting  dots  and 
slight  cross-hatching  ; — but  the  entire  face  and  flowing  hair 
of  Holbein's  preacher  are  done  with  forty-five  lines,  all  told. 

95.  Now  observe  what  a  different  state  of  mind  the  two 
artists  must  be  in  on  such  conditions  ; — one,  never  in  a  hurry, 
never  doing  anything  that  he  knows  is  wrong  ;  never  doing  a 
line  badly  that  he  can  do  better  ;  and  appealing  only  to  the 

*  Jolm  Bull  as  Sir  Oliver  Surface,  with  Sir  Peter  Teazle  and  Joseph 
Surface.    It  appeared  in  Punch,  early  in  1863. 


298 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


feelings  of  sensitive  persons,  and  the  judgment  of  attentive 
ones.  That  is  Holbein's  habit  of  soul.  What  is  the  habit  of 
soul  of  every  modern  engraver  ?  Always  in  a  hurry  ;  every- 
where doing  things  which  he  knows  to  be  wrong — (Tenniel 
knows  his  light  and  shade  to  be  wrong  as  well  as  I  do) — con- 
tinually doing  things  badly  which  he  was  able  to  do  better ; 
and  appealing  exclusively  to  the  feelings  of  the  dull,  and  the 
judgment  of  the  inattentive. 

Do  you  suppose  that  is  not  enough  to  make  the  difference 
•  between  mortal  and  immortal  art, — the  original  genius  being 
supposed  alike  in  both  ?  * 

96.  Thus  far  of  the  state  of  the  artist  himself.  I  pass  next 
to  the  relation  between  him  and  his  subordinate,  the  wood- 
cutter. 

The  modern  artist  requires  him  to  cut  a  hundred  and  fifty- 
seven  lines  in  the  wig  only, — the  old  artist  requires  him  to 
cut  forty-five  for  the  face,  and  long  hair,  altogether.  The 
actual  proportion  is  roughly,  and  on  the  average,  about  one 
to  twenty  of  cost  in  manual  labour,  ancient  to  modern, — the 
twentieth  part  of  the  mechanical  labour,  to  produce  an  immor- 
tal instead  of  a  perishable  work, — the  twentieth  part  of  the 
labour ;  and — which  is  the  greatest  difference  of  all — that 
twentieth  part,  at  once  less  mechanically  difficult,  and  more 
mentally  pleasant.  Mr.  Otley,  in  his  general  History  of  En- 
graving, says,  "  The  greatest  difficulty  in  wood  engraving  oc- 
curs in  clearing  out  the  minute  quadrangular  lights  ; "  and  in 
any  modern  woodcut  you  will  see  that  where  the  lines  of  the 
drawing  cross  each  other  to  produce  shade,  the  white  inter- 
stices are  cut  out  so  neatly  that  there  is  no  appearance  of  any 
jag  or  break  in  the  lines  ;  they  look  exactly  as  if  they  had 
been  drawn  with  a  pen.  It  is  chiefly  difficult  to  cut  the 
pieces  clearly  out  when  the  lines  cross  at  right  angles  ;  easier 
when  they  form  oblique  or  diamond-shaped  interstices  ;  but 

*  In  preparing  these  passages  for  the  press,  I  feel  perpetual  need  of 
qualifications  and  limitations,  for  it  is  impossible  to  surpass  the  humour, 
or  precision  of  expressional  touch,  in  the  really  golden  parts  of  Tenniel's 
works  ;  and  they  may  be  immortal,  as  representing  what  is  best  in  their 
day. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  299 


in  any  case,  some  half-dozen  cuts,  and  in  square  crossings  as 
many  as  twenty,  are  required  to  clear  one  interstice.  There- 
fore if  I  carelessly  draw  six  strokes  with  my  pen  across  other 
six,  I  produce  twenty-five  interstices,  each  of  which  will  need 
at  least  six — perhaps  twenty,  careful  touches  of  the  burin  to 
clear  out. — Say  ten  for  an  average  ;  and  I  demand  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  exqusitely  precise  touches  from  my  engraver, 
to  render  ten  careless  ones  of  mine. 

97.  Now  I  take  up  Punch,  at  his  best.  The  whole  of  the 
left  side  of  John  Bull's  waistcoat — the 
shadow  on  his  knee-breeches  and  great- 
coat— the  whole  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's 
gown,  and  of  John  Bull's  and  Sir  Peter 
Teazle's  complexions,  are  worked  with  fin- 
ished precision  of  cross-hatching.  These 
have  indeed  some  purpose  in  their  texture  ; 
but  in  the  most  wanton  and  gratuitous  way, 
the  wall  below  the  window  is  cross-hatched 
too,  and  that  not  with  a  double,  but  a  treble  line,  Fig.  4. 

There  are  about  thirty  of  these  columns,  with  thirty-five  in- 
terstices each  :  approximately,  1,050 — certainly  not  fewer — 
interstices  to  be  deliberately  cut  clear,  to  get  that  two  inches 
square  of  shadow. 

Now  calculate — or  think  enough  to  feel  the  impossibility  of 
calculating — the  number  of  woodcuts  used  daily  for  our  pop- 
ular prints,  and  how  many  men  are  night  and  day  cutting 
1,050  square  holes  to  the  square  inch,  as  the  occupation  of 
their  manly  life.  And  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  and  the  North 
Americans  fancy  they  have  abolished  slavery  ! 

98.  The  workman  cannot  have  even  the  consolation  of 
pride  ;  for  his  task,  even  in  its  finest  accomplishment,  is  not 
really  difficult, — only  tedious.  When  you  have  once  got  into 
the  practice,  it  is  as  easy  as  lying.  To  cut  regular  holes  with- 
out a  purpose  is  easy  enough  ;  but  to  cut  irregular  holes  with 
a  purpose,  that  is  difficult,  for  ever  ; — no  tricks  of  tool  or 
trade  will  give  you  power  to  do  that. 

The  supposed  difficulty — the  thing  which,  at  all  events,  it 
takes  time  to  learn,  is  to  cut  the  interstices  neat,  and  each 


300 


ARIADNE  FLORENTIFA. 


like  the  other.  But  is  there  any  reason,  do  you  suppose,  lot 
their  being  neat,  and  each  like  the  other  ?  So  far  from  it, 
they  would  be  twenty  times  prettier  if  they  were  irregular, 
and  each  different  from  the  other.  And  an  old  woodcutter, 
instead  of  taking  pride  in  cutting  these  intestices  smooth  and 
alike,  resolutely  cuts  them  rough  and  irregular  ;  taking  care, 
at  the  same  time,  never  to  have  any  more  than  are  wanted,  this 
being  only  one  part  of  the  general  system  of  intelligent  ma- 
nipulation, which  made  so  good  an  artist  of  the  engraver  that 
it  is  impossible  to  say  of  any  standard  old  woodcut,  whether 
the  draughtsman  engraved  it  himself  or  not.  I  should  imag- 
ine, from  the  character  and  subtlety  of  the  touch,  that  every 
line  of  the  Dance  of  Death  had  been  engraved  by  Holbein ; 
we  know  it  was  not,  and  that  there  can  be  no  certainty  given 
by  even  the  finest  pieces  of  wood  execution  of  anything  more 
than  perfect  harmony  between  the  designer  and  workman. 
And  consider  how  much  this  harmony  demands  in  the  latter. 
Not  that  the  modern  engraver  is  unintelligent  in  applying  his 
mechanical  skill :  very  often  he  greatly  improves  the  drawing  ; 
but  we  never  could  mistake  his  hand  for  Holbein's. 

99.  The  true  merit,  then,  of  wood  execution,  as  regards  this 
matter  of  cross-hatching,  is  first  that  there  be  no  more  cross- 
ing than  necessary  ;  secondly,  that  all  the  interstices  be  vari- 
ous, and  rough.  You  may  look  through  the  entire  series  of 
the  Dance  of  Death  without  finding  any  cross-hatching  what- 
ever, except  in  a  few  unimportant  bits  of  background,  so  rude 
as  to  need  scarcely  more  than  one  touch  to  each  interstice. 
Albert  Durer  crosses  more  definitely  ;  but  yet,  in  any  fold  of 
his  drapery,  every  white  spot  differs  in  size  from  every  other, 
and  the  arrangement  of  the  whole  is  delightful,  by  the  kind 
of  variety  which  the  spots  on  a  leopard  have. 

On  the  other  hand,  where  either  expression  or  form  can  be 
rendered  by  the  shape  of  the  lights  and  darks,  the  old  engraver 
becomes  as  careful  as  in  an  ordinary  ground  he  is  careless. 

The  endeavour,  with  your  own  hand,  and  common  pen  and 
ink,  to  copy  a  small  piece  of  either  of  the  two  Holbein  woodcuts 
(Figures  2  and  3)  will  prove  this  to  you  better  than  any  words. 

100.  I  said  that,  had  Tenniel  been  rightly  trained,  there 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  301 


might  have  been  the  making  of  a  Holbein,  or  nearly  a  Holbein, 
in  him.  I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  can  turn  from  his  work  to  that 
of  a  man  who  was  not  trained  at  all,  and  who  was,  without 
training,  Holbein's  equal. 

Equal,  in  the  sense  that  this  brown  stone,  in  my  left  hand, 
is  the  equal,  though  not  the  likeness,  of  that  in  my  right. 
They  are  both  of  the  same  true  and  pure  crystal ;  but  the  one 
is  brown  with  iron,  and  never  touched  by  forming  hand  ;  the 
other  has  never  been  in  rough  companionship,  and  has  been 
exquisitely  polished.  So  with  these  two  men.  The  one  was 
the  companion  of  Erasmus  and  Sir  Thomas  More.  His  father 
was  so  good  an  artist  that  you  cannot  always  tell  their  draw- 
ings asunder.  But  the  other  was  a  farmer's  son  ;  and  learned 
his  trade  in  the  back  shops  of  Newcastle. 

Yet  the  first  book  I  asked  you  to  get  was  his  biography  ; 
and  in  this  frame  are  set  together  a  drawing  by  Hans  Hol- 
bein, and  one  by  Thomas  Bewick.  I  know  which  is  most 
scholarly  ;  but  I  do  not  know  which  is  best. 

101.  It  is  much  to  say  for  the  self-taught  Englishman  ; — yet 
do  not  congratulate  yourselves  on  his  simplicity.  I  told  you, 
a  little  while  since,  that  the  English  nobles  had  left  the  his- 
tory of  birds  to  be  written,  and  their  spots  to  be  drawn,  by  a 
printer's  lad  ; — but  I  did  not  tell  you  their  farther  loss  in  the 
fact  that  this  printer's  lad  could  have  written  their  own  his- 
tories, and  drawn  their  own  spots,  if  they  had  let  him.  But 
they  had  no  history  to  be  written  ;  and  were  too  closely  macu- 
late to  be  portrayed  ; — white  ground  in  most  places  altogether 
obscured.  Had  there  been  Mores  and.  Henrys  to  draw,  Be- 
wick could  have  drawn  them  ;  and  would  have  found  his  func- 
tion. As  it  was,  the  nobles  of  his  day  left  him  to  draw  the 
frogs,  and  pigs,  and  sparrows — of  his  day,  which  seemed  to 
him,  in  his  solitude,  the  best  types  of  its  Nobility.  No  sight 
or  thought  of  beautiful  things  was  ever  granted  him  ; — no 
heroic  creature,  goddess-born — how  much  less  any  native 
Deity — ever  shone  upon  him.  To  his  utterly  English  mind, 
the  straw  of  the  stye,  and  its  tenantry,  were  abiding  truth  ; — 
the  cloud  of  Olympus,  and  its  tenantry,  a  child's  dream.  He 
could  draw  a  pig,  but  not  an  Aphrodite. 


302 


ARIADNE  FL  ORENTINA. 


102.  The  three  pieces  of  woodcut  from  his  Fables  (the  two 
lower  ones  enlarged)  in  the  opposite  plate,  show  his  utmost 
strength  and  utmost  rudeness.  I  must  endeavour  to  make 
you  thoroughly  understand  both  : — the  magnificent  artistic 
power,  the  flawless  virtue,  veracity,  tenderness, — the  infinite 
humour  of  the  man  ;  and  yet  the  difference  between  England 
and  Florence,  in  the  use  they  make  of  such  gifts  in  their  chil- 
dren. 

For  the  moment,  however,  I  confine  myself  to  the  examina- 
tion of  technical  points  ;  and  we  must  follow  our  former  con- 
clusions a  little  further. 

103.  Because  our  lines  in  wood  must  be  thick,  it  becomes 
an  extreme  virtue  in  wood  engraving  to  economize  lines, — not 
merely,  as  in  all  other  art,  to  save  time  and  power,  but  because, 
our  lines  being  necessarily  blunt,  we  must  make  up  our  minds 
to  do  with  fewer,  by  many,  than  are  in  the  object.  But  is  this 
necessarily  a  disadvantage  ? 

Absolutely,  an  immense  disadvantage — a  woodcut  never  can 
be  so  beautiful  or  good  a  thing  as  a  painting,  or  line  engraving. 
But  in  its  own  separate  and  useful  way,  an  excellent  thing,  be- 
cause, practised  rightly,  it  exercises  in  the  artist,  and  sum- 
mons in  you,  the  habit  of  abstraction  ;  that  is  to  say,  of  decid- 
ing what  are  the  essential  points  in  the  things  you  see,  and 
seizing  these  ;  a  habit  entirely  necessary  to  strong  humanity  ; 
and  so  natural  to  all  humanity,  that  it  leads,  in  its  indolent 
and  undisciplined  states,  to  all  the  vulgar  amateur's  liking  of 
sketches  better  than  pictures.  The  sketch  seems  to  put  the 
thing  for  him  into  a  concentrated  and  exciting  form. 

104.  Observe,  therefore,  to  guard  you  from  this  error,  that 
a  bad  sketch  is  good  for  nothing  ;  and  that  nobody  can  make 
a  good  sketch  unless  they  generally  are  trying  to  finish  with 
extreme  care.  But  the  abstraction  of  the  essential  particulars 
in  his  subject  by  a  line-master,  has  a  peculiar  didactic  value. 
For  painting,  when  it  is  complete,  leaves  it  much  to  your  own 
judgment  what  to  look  at  ;  and,  if  you  are  a  fool,  you  look  at 
the  wrong  thing  ; — but  in  a  fine  woodcut,  the  master  says  to 
you,  "  You  shall  look  at  this  or  at  nothing." 

105.  For  example,  here  is  a  little  tailpiece  of  Bewick's,  to 


Plate  I. — Things  Celestial  and  Terrestrial^ 
As  apparent  to  the  English  Mind. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  303 


the  fable  of  the  Frogs  and  the  Stork.*  He  is,  as  I  told  you, 
as  stout  a  reformer  as  Holbein,  or  Botticelli,  or  Luther,  or 
Savonarola  ;  and,  as  an  impartial  reformer,  hits  right  and  left, 
at  lower  or  upper  classes,  if  he  sees  them  wrong.  Most  fre- 
quently, he  strikes  at  vice  without  reference  to  class  ;  but  in 
this  vignette  he  strikes  definitely  at  the  degradation  of  the  viler 
popular  mind  which  is  incapable  of  being  governed,  because 
it  cannot  understand  the  nobleness  of  kingship.  He  has  "writ- 
ten— better  than  written,  engraved,  sure  to  suffer  no  slip  of 
type — his  legend  under  the  drawing ;  so  that  we  know  his 
meaning  : 

"  Set  them  up  with  a  king,  indeed  !  " 

106.  There  is  an  audience  of  seven  frogs,  listening  to  a 
speaker,  or  croaker,  in  the  middle  ;  and  Bewick  has  set  him- 
self to  show  in  all,  but  especially  in  the  speaker,  essential  frog- 
giness  of  mind — the  marsh  temper.  He  could  not  have  done 
it  half  so  well  in  painting  as  he  has  done  by  the  abstraction  9f 
wood-outline.  The  characteristic  of  a  manly  mind,  or  body, 
is  to  be  gentle  in  temper,  and  firm  in  constitution  ;  the  con- 
trary essence  of  a  froggy  mind  and  body  is  to  be  angular  in 
temper,  and  flabby  in  constitution.  I  have  enlarged  Bewick's 
orator-frog  for  you,  Plate  I.,  c,  and  I  think  you  will  feel  that 
he  is  entirely  expressed  in  those  essential  particulars. 

This  being  perfectly  good  woodcutting,  notice  especially  its 
deliberation.  No  scrawling  or  scratching,  or  cross-hatching, 
or  'free '  work  of  any  sort.  Most  deliberate  laying  down  of 
solid  lines  and  dots,  of  which  you  cannot  change  one.  The 
real  difficulty  of  wood  engraving  is  to  cut  every  one  of  these 
black  lines  or  spaces  of  the  exactly  right  shape,  and  not  at  all 
to  cross-hatch  them  cleanly. 

107.  Next,  examine  the  technical  treatment  of  the  pig,  above. 
I  have  purposely  chosen  this  as  an  example  of  a  white  object 
on  dark  ground,  and  the  frog  as  a  dark  object  on  light  ground, 
to  explain  to  you  what  I  mean  by  saying  that  fine  engraving- 
regards  local  colour,  but  not  light  and  shade.  You  see  both 
frog  and  pig  are  absolutely  without  light  and  shade.  The  frog, 
indeed,  casts  a  shadow  ;  but  his  hind  leg  is  as  white  as  his 

*  From  Bewick's  iEsop's  Fables. 


304 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TIN  A . 


threat.  In  the  pig  you  don't  even  know  which  way  the  light 
falls.  But  you  know  at  once  that  the  pig  is  white,  and  the 
frog  brown  or  green. 

108.  There  are,  however,  two  pieces  of  chiaroscuro  implied 
in  the  treatment  of  the  pig.  It  is  assumed  that  his  curly  tail 
would  be  light  against  the  background — dark  against  his  own 
rump.  This  little  piece  of  heraldic  quartering  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  solidify  him.  He  would  have  been  a  white  ghost 
of  a  pig,  flat  on  the  background,  but  for  that  alternative  tail, 
and  the  bits  of  dark  behind  the  ears.  Secondly  :  "Where  the 
shade  is  necessary  to  suggest  the  position  of  his  ribs,  it  is 
given  with  graphic  and  chosen  points  of  dark,  as  few  as  pos- 
sible ;  not  for  the  sake  of  the  shade  at  all,  but  of  the  skin  and 
bone. 

109.  That,  then,  being  the  law  of  refused  chiaroscuro,  ob- 
serve further  the  method  of  outline.  We  said  that  we  were 
to  have  thick  lines  in  wood,  if  possible.  Look  what  thickness 
of  black  outline  Bewick  has  left  under  our  pig's  chin,  and 
above  his  nose. 

But  that  is  not  a  line  at  all,  }Tou  think  ? 

No  ; — a  modern  engraver  would  have  made  it  one,  and 
prided  himself  on  getting  it  fine.  Bewick  leaves  it  actually 
thicker  than  the  snout,  but  puts  all  his  ingenuity  of  touch  to 
vary  the  forms,  and  break  the  extremities  of  his  white  cuts,  so 
that  the  eye  may  be  refreshed  and  relieved  by  new  forms  at 
every  turn.  The  group  of  white  touches  filling  the  space  be- 
tween snout  and  ears  might  be  a  wreath  of  fine-weather 
clouds,  so  studiously  are  they  grouped  and  broken. 

And  nowhere,  you  see,  does  a  single  black  line  cross  an- 
other. 

Look  back  to  Figure  4,  page  55,  and  you  will  know,  hence- 
forward, the  difference  between  good  and  bad  woodcutting. 

110.  We  have  also,  in  the  lower  woodcut,  a  notable  instance 
of  Bewick's  power  of  abstraction.  You  will  observe  that  one 
of  the  chief  characters  of  this  frog,  which  makes  him  humor- 
ous —next  to  his  vain  endeavour  to  get  some  firmness  into  his 
forefeet — is  his  obstinately  angular  hump-back.  And  you 
must  feel,  when  you  see  it  so  marked,  how  important  a  gen- 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  WOOD  ENGRAVING.  305 

eral  character  of  a  frog  it  is  to  have  a  hump-back, — not  at  the 
shoulders,  but  the  loins. 

111.  Here,  then,  is  a  case  in  which  you  will  see  the  exact 
function  that  anatomy  should  take  in  art. 

All  the  most  scientific  anatomy  in  the  world  would  never 
have  taught  Bewick,  much  less  you,  how  to  draw  a  frog. 

But  when  once  you  have  drawn  him,  or  looked  at  him,  so  as 
to  know  his  points,  it  then  becomes  entirely  interesting  to  find 
out  why  he  has  a  hump-back.  So  I  went  myself  yesterday  to 
Professor  Bolleston  for  a  little  anatomy,  just  as  I  should  have 
gone  to  Professor  Phillips  for  a  little  geology  ;  and  the  Pro- 
fessor brought  me  a  fine  little  active  frog  ;  and  we  put  him  on 
the  table,  and  made  him  jump  all  over  it,  and  then  the  Pro- 
fessor brought  in  a  charming  Squelette  of  a  frog,  and  showed 
me  that  he  needed  a  projecting  bone  from  his  rump,  as  a  bird 
needs  it  from  his  breast, — the  one  to  attach  the  strong  mus- 
cles of  the  hind  legs,  as  the  other  to  attach  those  of  the  fore- 
legs or  wings.  So  that  the  entire  leaping  power  of  the  frog- 
is  in  his  hump-back,  as  the  flying  power  of  the  bird  is  in  its 
breastbone.  And  thus  this  Frog  Parliament  is  most  literally 
a  Bump  Parliament — everything  depending  on  the  hind  legs, 
and  nothing  on  the  brains  ;  which  makes  it  wonderfully  like 
some  other  Parliaments  we  know  of  nowadays,  with  Mr.  Ayr- 
ton  and  Mr.  Lowe  for  their  aesthetic  and  acquisitive  eyes,  and 
a  rump  of  Bail  way  Directors. 

112.  Now,  to  conclude,  for  want  of  time  only — I  have  but 
touched  on  the  beginning  of  my  subject, — understand  clearly 
and  finally  this  simple  principle  of  all  art,  that  the  best  is  that 
which  realizes  absolutely,  if  possible.  Here  is  a  viper  by  Car- 
paccio  :  you  are  afraid  to  go  near  it.  Here  is  an  arm-chair  by 
Carpaccio  :  you  who  came  in  late,  and  are  standing,  to  my  re- 
gret, would  like  to  sit  down  in  it.  This  is  consummate  art ; 
but  you  can  only  have  that  with  consummate  means,  and  ex- 
quisitely trained  and  hereditary  mental  power. 

With  inferior  means,  and  average  mental  power,  you  must 
be  content  to  give  a  rude  abstraction  ;  but  if  rude  abstraction 
is  to  be  made,  think  what  a  difference  there  must  be  between 
a  wise  man's  and  a  fool's ;  and  consider  what  heavy  responsi- 


306 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


bility  lies  upon  you  in  your  youth,  to  determine,  among  reali- 
ties, by  what  you  will  be  delighted,  and,  among  imaginations, 
by  whose  you  will  be  led. 


LECTURE  IV. 

THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING. 

113.  We  are  to-day  to  examine  the  proper  methods  for  the 
technical  management  of  the  most  perfect  of  the  arms  of  pre- 
cision possessed  by  the  artist.  For  you  will  at  once  under- 
stand that  a  line  cut  by  a  finely-pointed  instrument  upon  the 
smooth  surface  of  metal  is  susceptible  of  the  utmost  fineness 
that  can  be  given  to  the  definite  work  of  the  human  hand.  In 
drawing  with  pen  upon  paper,  the  surface  of  the  paper  is 
slightly  rough  ;  necessarily,  two  points  touch  it  instead  of  one, 
and  the  liquid  flows  from  them  more  or  less  irregularly;  what- 
ever the  draughtsman's  skill.  But  you  cut  a  metallic  sur- 
face with  one  edge  only  ;  the  furrow  drawn  by  a  skater  on 
the  surface  of  ice  is  like  it  on  a  large  scale.  Your  surface  is 
polished,  and  your  line  may  be  wholly  faultless,  if  your  hand 
is. 

114.  And  because,  in  such  material,  effects  may  be  pro- 
duced which  no  penmanship  could  rival,  most  people,  I  fancy, 
think  that  a  steel  plate  half  engraves  itself ;  that  the  work- 
man has  no  trouble  with  it,  compared  to  that  of  a  pen 
draughtsman. 

To  test  your  feeling  in  this  matter  accurately,  here  is  a 
manuscript  book  written  with  pen  and  ink,  and  illustrated 
with  flourishes  and  vignettes. 

You  will  all,  I  think,  be  disposed,  on  examining  it,  to  ex- 
claim, How  wonderful !  and  even  to  doubt  the  possibility  of 
every  page  in  the  book  being  completed  in  the  same  manner. 
Again,  here  are  three  of  my  own  drawings,  executed  with  the 
pen,  and  Indian  ink,  when  I  was  fifteen.  They  are  copies 
from  large  lithographs  by  Prout  ;  and  I  imagine  that  most  of 
my  pupils  would  think  me  very  tyrannical  if  I  requested  them 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING. 


307 


bo  do  anything  of  the  kind  themselves.  And  yet,  when  you 
see  in  the  shop  windows  a  line  engraving  like  this,*  or  this,* 
either  of  which  contains,  alone,  as  much  work  as  fifty  pages 
of  the  manuscript  book,  or  fifty  such  drawings  as  mine,  you 
look  upon  its  effect  as  quite  a  matter  of  course, — you  never 
say  £  how  wonderful '  that  is,  nor  consider  how  you  would  like 
to  have  to  live,  by  producing  anything  of  the  same  kind  your- 
selves. 

115.  Yet  you  cannot  suppose  it  is  in  reality  easier  to  draw 
a  line  with  a  cutting  point,  not  seeing  the  effect  at  all,  or,  if 
any  effect,  seeing  a  gleam  of  light  instead  of  darkness,  than 
to  draw  your  black  line  at  once  on  the  white  paper  ?  You 
cannot  really  think  f  that  there  is  something  complacent, 
sympathetic,  and  helpful  in  the  nature  of  steel ;  so  that  while 
a  pen-and-ink  sketch  may  always  be  considered  an  achieve- 
ment proving  cleverness  in  the  sketcher,  a  sketch  on  steel 
comes  out  by  a  mere  favour  of  the  indulgent  metal ;  or  that 
the  plate  is  woven  like  a  piece  of  pattern  silk,  and  the  pattern 
is  developed  by  pasteboard  cards  punched  full  of  holes  ?  Not 
so.  Look  close  at  this  engraving,  or  take  a  smaller  and  simpler 
one,  Turner's  Mercury  and  Argus, — imagine  it  to  be  a  draw- 
ing in  pen  and  ink,  and  yourself  required  similarly  to  produce 
its  parallel !  True,  the  steel  point  has  the  one  advantage  of 
not  blotting,  but  it  has  tenfold  or  twentyfold  disadvantage,  in 
that  you  cannot  slur,  nor  efface,  except  in  a  very  resolute  and 
laborious  way,  nor  play  with  it,  nor  even  see  what  you  are 
doing  with  it  at  the  moment,  far  less  the  effect  that  is  to  be. 
You  must  feel  what  you  are  doing  with  it,  and  know  precisely 
what  you  have  got  to  do  ;  how  deep,  how  broad,  how  far  apart 
your  lines  must  be,  etc.  and  etc.,  (a  couple  of  lines  of  etceteras 
would  not  be  enough  to  imply  all  you  must  know).  But  sup- 
pose the  plate  were  only  a  pen  drawing :  take  your  pen — your 

*  Miller's  large  plate  of  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice,  after  Turner  ;  and 
GoodalFs,  of  Tivoli,  after  Turner.  The  other  examples  referred  to  are 
left  in  the  University  Galleries. 

f  This  paragraph  was  not  read  at  the  lecture,  time  not  allowing  : — it 
is  part  of  what  I  wrote  on  engraving  some  years  ago,  in  the  papers  for 
the  Art  Journal,  called  the  Cestus  of  Aglaia. 


308 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


finest — and  just  try  to  copy  the  leaves  that  entangle  the  head  of 
Io,  and  her  head  itself ;  remembering  always  that  the  kind 
of  work  required  here  is  mere  child's  play  compared  to  that 
of  fine  figure  engraving.  Nevertheless,  take  a  small  magnify- 
ing glass  to  this — count  the  dots  and  lines  that  gradate  the 
nostrils  and  the  edges  of  the  facial  bone  ;  notice  how  the 
light  is  left  on  the  top  of  the  head  by  the  stopping,  at  its  out- 
line, of  the  coarse  touches  which  form  the  shadows  under  the 
leaves  ;  examine  it  well,  and  then — I  humbly  ask  of  you — try 
to  do  a  piece  of  it  yourself  !  You  clever  sketcher — you  youug 
lady  or  gentleman  of  genius — you  eye-giassed  dilettante — you 
current  writer  of  criticism  royally  plural, — I  beseech  you, — 
do  it  yourself;  do  the  merely  etched  outline  yourself,  if  no 
more.  Look  you, — you  hold  your  etching  needle  this  way, 
as  you  would  a  pencil,  nearly  ;  and  then, — you  scratch  with 
it !  it  is  as  easy  as  lying.  Or  if  you  think  that  too  difficult, 
take  an  easier  piece  ; — take  either  of  the  light  sprays  of  foliage 
that  rise  against  the  fortress  on  the  right,  pass  your  lens  over 
them — look  how  their  fine  outline  is  first  drawn,  leaf  by  leaf  ; 
then  how  the  distant  rock  is  put  in  between,  with  broken 
lines,  mostly  stopping  before  they  touch  the  leaf-outline  ;  and 
again,  I  pray  you,  do  it  yourself, — if  not  on  that  scale,  on  a 
larger.  Go  on  into  the  hollows  of  the  distant  rock, — traverse 
its  thickets, — number  its  towers  ; — count  how  many  lines  there 
are  in  a  laurel  bush — in  an  arch — in  a  casement ;  some  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  or  two  hundred,  deliberately  drawn  lines,  you 
will  find,  in  every  square  quarter  of  an  inch  ; — say  three  thou- 
sand  to  the  inch, — each,  with  skilful  intent,  put  in  its  place  ! 
and  then  consider  what  the  ordinary  sketcher's  work  must 
appear,  to  the  men  who  have  been  trained  to  this  ! 

116.  "But  might  not  more  have  been  done  by  three  thou- 
sand lines  to  a  square  inch  ?  "  you  will  perhaps  ask.  Well, 
possibly.  It  may  be  with  lines  as  with  soldiers  :  three  hun- 
dred, knowing  their  work  thoroughly,  may  be  stronger  than 
three  thousand  less  sure  of  their  aim.  We  shall  have  to  press 
close  home  this  question  about  numbers  and  purpose  pres- 
ently ; — it  is  not  the  question  now.  Suppose  certain  results 
required, — atmospheric  effects,  surface  textures,  transparent 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING.  309 


cies  of  shade,  confusions  of  light, — then,  more  could  not  be 
done  with  less.  There  are  engravings  of  this  modern  school, 
of  which,  with  respect  to  their  particular  aim,  it  may  be  said, 
most  truly,  they  "  cannot  be  better  done." 

Here  is  one  just  finished, — or,  at  least,  finished  to  the  eyes 
of  ordinary  mortals,  though  its  fastidious  master  means  to  re- 
touch it ; — a  quite  pure  line  engraving,  by  Mr.  Charles  Henry 
Jeens  ;  (in  calling  it  pure  line,  I  mean  that  there  are  no  mixt- 
ures of  mezzotint  or  any  mechanical  tooling,  but  all  is  steady 
hand-work,)  from  a  picture  by  Mr.  Armytage,  which,  without 
possessing  any  of  the  highest  claims  to  admiration,  is  }Tet  free 
from  the  vulgar  vices  which  disgrace  most  of  our  popular  re- 
ligious art ;  and  is  so  sweet  in  the  fancy  of  it  as  to  deserve, 
better  than  many  works  of  higher  power,  the  pains  of  the  en- 
graver to  make  it  a  common  possession.  It  is  meant  to  help 
us  to  imagine  the  evening  of  the  day  when  the  father  and 
mother  of  Christ  had  been  seeking  him  through  Jerusalem  : 
they  have  come  to  a  well  where  women  are  drawing  water  ; 
St.  Joseph  passes  on, — but  the  tired  Madonna,  leaning  on  the 
well's  margin,  asks  wistfully  of  the  women  if  they  have  seen 
such  and  such  a  child  astray.  Now  will  you  just  look  for  a 
while  into  the  lines  by  which  the  expression  of  the  weary  and 
anxious  face  is  rendered ;  see  how  unerring  they  are, — how 
calm  and  clear ;  and  think  how  many  questions  have  to  be 
determined  in  drawing  the  most  minute  portion  of  any  one, 
— its  curve, — its  thickness, — its  distance  from  the  next, — its 
own  preparation  for  ending,  invisibly,  where  it  ends.  Think 
what  the  precision  must  be  in  these  that  trace  the  edge  of 
the  lip,  and  make  it  look  quivering  with  disappointment,  or 
in  these  which  have  made  the  eyelash  heavy  with  restrained 
tears. 

117.  Or  if,  as  must  be  the  case  with  many  of  my  audience, 
it  is  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  the  difficulties  here  over- 
come, look  merely  at  the  draperies,  and  other  varied  sub- 
stances represented  in  the  plate  ;  see  how  silk,  and  linen,  and 
stone,  and  poftery,  and  flesh,  are  all  separated  in  texture,  and 
gradated  in  light,  by  the  most  subtle  artifices  and  appliances 
of  line, — of  which  artifices,  and  the  nature  of  the  mechanical 


310 


ARIADNE  FLORENT1NA. 


labour  throughout,  I  must  endeavour  to  give  you  to-day  a 
more  distinct  conception  than  you  are  in  the  habit  of  form- 
ing. But  as  I  shall  have  to  blame  some  of  these  methods  in 
their  general  result,  and  I  do  not  wish  any  word  of  general 
blame  to  be  associated  with  this  most  excellent  and  careful 
plate  by  Mr.  Jeens,  I  will  pass,  for  special  examination,  to  one 
already  in  your  reference  series,  which  for  the  rest  exhibits 
more  various  treatment  in  its  combined  landscape,  back- 
ground, and  figures  ;  the  Belle  Jardiniere  of  Raphael,  drawn 
and  engraved  by  the  Baron  Desmoyers. 

You  see,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  ground,  stones,  and 
other  coarse  surfaces  are  distinguished  from  the  flesh  and 
draperies  by  broken  and  wriggled  lines.  Those  broken  lines 
cannot  be  executed  with  the  burin,  they  are  etched  in  the 
early  states  of  the  plate,  and  are  a  modern  artifice,  never  used 
by  old  engravers ;  partly  because  the  older  men  were  not 
masters  of  the  art  of  etching,  but  chiefly  because  even  those 
who  were  acquainted  with  it  would  not  employ  lines  of  this 
nature.  They  have  been  developed  by  the  importance  of 
landscape  in  modern  engraving,  and  have  produced  some  val- 
uable results  in  small  plates,  especially  of  architecture.  But 
they  are  entirely  erroneous  in  principle,  for  the  surface  of 
stones  and  leaves  is  not  broken  or  jagged  in  this  manner,  but 
consists  of  mossy,  or  blooming,  or  otherwise  organic  texture, 
which  cannot  be  represented  by  these  coarse  lines ;  their  gen- 
eral consequence  has  therefore  been  to  withdraw  the  mind  of 
the  observer  from  all  beautiful  and  tender  characters  in  fore- 
ground, and  eventually  to  destroy  the  very  school  of  land- 
scape engraving  which  gave  birth  to  them. 

Considered,  however,  as  a  means  of  relieving  more  deli- 
cate textures,  they  are  in  some  degree  legitimate,  being,  in 
fact,  a  kind  of  chasing  or  jagging  one,  part  of  the  plate  surface 
in  order  to  throw  out  the  delicate  tints  from  the  rough  field. 
But  the  same  effect  was  produced  with  less  pains,  and  far 
more  entertainment  to  the  eye,  by  the  older  engravers,  who 
employed  purely  ornamental  variations  of  line  ;  thus  in  Plate 
IV.,  opposite  page  87,  the  drapery  is  sufficiently  distin- 
guished from  the  grass  by  the  treatment  of  the  latter  as  an 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRA  VING.  311 


ornamental  arabesque.  The  grain  of  wood  is  elaborately  en- 
graved by  Marc  Antonio,  with  the  same  purpose,  in  the  plate 
given  in  your  Standard  Series. 

118.  Next,  however,  you  observe  what  difference  of  texture 
and  force  exists  between  the  smooth,  continuous  lines  them- 
selves, which  are  all  really  engraved.  You  must  take  some 
pains  to  understand  the  nature  of  this  operation. 

The  line  is  first  cut  lightly  through  its  whole  course,  by 
absolute  decision  and  steadiness  of  hand,  which  you  may  en- 
deavour to  imitate  if  you  like,  in  its  simplest  phase,  by  draw- 
ing a  circle  with  your  compass-pen  ;  and  then,  grasping  your 
penholder  so  that  you  can  push  the  point  like  a  plough,  de- 
scribing other  circles  inside  or  outside  of  it,  in  exact  parallel- 
ism with  the  mathematical  line,  and  at  exactly  equal  distances. 
To  approach,  or  depart,  with  your  point  at  finely  gradated 
intervals,  may  be  your  next  exercise,  if  you  find  the  first  un- 
expectedly easy. 

119.  When  the  line  is  thus  described  in  its  proper  course, 
it  is  ploughed  deeper,  where  depth  is  needed,  by  a  second 
cut  of  the  burin,  first  on  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other,  the 
cut  being  given  with  gradated  force  so  as  to  take  away  most 
steel  where  the  line  is  to  be  darkest.  Every  line  of  gradated 
depth  in  the  plate  has  to  be  thus  cut  eight  or  ten  times  over 
at  least,  with  retouchings  to  smooth  and  clear  all  in  the  close. 
Jason  has  to  plough  his  field  ten-furrow  deep,  with  his  fiery 
oxen  well  in  hand,  all  the  while. 

When  the  essential  lines  are  thus  produced,  in  their  several 
directions,  those  which  have  been  drawn  across  each  other,  so 
as  to  give  depth  of  shade,  or  richness  of  texture,  have  to  be 
farther  enriched  by  dots  in  the  interstices  ;  else  there  would 
be  a  painful  appearance  of  network  everywhere  ;  and  these 
dots  require  each  four  or  five  jags  to  produce  them  ;  and  each 
of  these  jags  must  be  done  with  what  artists  and  engravers 
alike  call  '  feeling/ — the  sensibility,  that  is,  of  a  hand  com- 
pletely under  mental  government.  So  wrought,  the  dots  look 
soft,  and  like  touches  of  paint ;  but  mechanically  dug  in,  they 
are  vulgar  and  hard. 

120.  Now,  observe,  that,  for  every  piece  of  shadow  through- 


ARIADNE  FLORE  NT  IN  A. 


out  the  work,  the  engraver  has  to  decide  with  what  quantity 
and  kind  of  line  he  will  produce  it.  Exactly  the  same  quan- 
tity of  black,  and  therefore  the  same  depth  of  tint  in  general 
effect,  may  be  given  with  six  thick  lines  ;  or  with  twelve,  of 
half  their  thickness  ;  or  with  eighteen,  of  a  third  of  the  thick- 
ness. The  second  six,  second  twelve,  or  second  eighteen,  may 
cross  the  first  six,  first  twelve,  or  first  eighteen,  or  go  between 
them  ;  and  they  may  cross  at  any  angle.  And  then  the  third 
six  may  be  put  between  the  first  six,  or  between  the  second 
six,  or  across  both,  and  at  any  angle.  In  the  net-work  thus 
produced,  any  kind  of  dots  may  be  put  in  the  severally  shaped 
interstices.  And  for  any  of  the  series  of  superadded  lines, 
dots,  of  equivalent  value  in  shade,  may  be  substituted.  (Some 
engravings  are  wrought  in  dots  altogether.)  Choice  infinite, 
with  multiplication  of  infinity,  is,  at  all  events,  to  be  made, 
for  every  minute  space,  from  one  side  of  the  plate  to  the  other. 

121.  The  excellence  of  a  beautiful  engraving  is  primarily  in 
the  use  of  these  resources  to  exhibit  the  qualities  of  the  orig- 
inal picture,  with  delight  to  the  eye  in  the  method  of  transla- 
tion ;  and  the  language  of  engraving,  when  once  }rou  begin  to 
understand  it,  is,  in  these  respects,  so  fertile,  so  ingenious,  so 
ineffably  subtle  and  severe  in  its  grammar,  that  you  may  quite 
easily  make  it  the  subject  of  your  life's  investigation,  as  you 
would  the  scholarship  of  a  lovely  literature. 

But  in  doing  this,  you  would  withdraw,  and  necessarily 
withdraw,  your  attention  from  the  higher  qualities  of  art, 
precisely  as  a  grammarian,  who  is  that,  and  nothing  more, 
loses  command  of  the  matter  and  substance  of  thought.  And 
the  exquisitely  mysterious  mechanisms  of  the  engraver's 
method  have,  in  fact,  thus  entangled  the  intelligence  of  the 
careful  draughtsmen  of  Europe  ;  so  that  since  the  final  per- 
fection of  this  translator's  power,  all  the  men  of  finest  patience 
and  finest  hand  have  stayed  content  with  it  ; — the  subtlest 
draughtsmanship  has  perished  from  the  canvas,  *  and  sought 

*  An  effort  lias  lately  been  made  in  France,  by  Meissonier,  Geroine, 
and  their  school,  to  recover  it,  with  marvellous  collateral  skill  of  en- 
gravers. The  etching  of  Gerome's  Louis  XVI.  and  Moli^re  is  one  of  the 
complete st  pieces  of  skilful  mechanism  ever  put  on  metal. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING. 


313 


more  popular  praise  in  this  labyrinth  of  disciplined  language, 
and  more  or  less  dulled  or  degraded  thought.  And,  in  sum,  I 
know  no  cause  more  direct  or  fatal,  in  the  destruction  of  the 
great  schools  of  European  art,  than  the  perfectness  of  modern 
line  engraving. 

122.  This  great  and  profoundly  to  be  regretted  influence  I 
will  prove  and  illustrate  to  you  on  another  occasion.  My  ob- 
ject to-day  is  to  explain  the  perfectness  of  the  art  itself ;  and 
above  all  to  request  you,  if  you  will  not  look  at  pictures  in- 
stead of  photographs,  at  least  not  to  allow  the  cheap  merits 
of  the  chemical  operation  to  withdraw  your  interest  from  the 
splendid  human  labour  of  the  engraver.  Here  is  a  little  vi- 
gnette from  Stothard,  for  instance,  in  Rogers'  poems,  to  the 
lines, 

'*  Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
'Neath  sister  elms,  that  waved  their  summer  shade." 

You  would  think,  would  you  not  ?  (and  rightly,)  that  of  all 
difficult  things  to  express  with  crossed  black  lines  and  dots, 
the  face  of  a  young  girl  must  be  the  most  difficult.  Yet 
here  you  have  the  face  of  a  bright  girl,  radiant  in  light, 
transparent,  mysterious,  almost  breathing, — her  dark  hair  in- 
volved in  delicate  wreath  and  shade,  her  eyes  full  of  joy  and 
sweet  playfulness, — and  all  this  done  by  the  exquisite  order 
and  gradation  of  a  very  few  lines,  which,  if  you  will  examine 
them  through  a  lens,  you  find  dividing  and  chequering  the 
lip,  and  cheek,  and  chin,  so  strongly  that  you  would  have  fan- 
cied they  could  only  produce  the  effect  of  a  grim  iron  mask. 
But  the  intelligences  of  order  and  form  guide  them  into  beauty, 
and  inflame  them  with  delicatest  life. 

123.  And  do  you  see  the  size  of  this  head  ?  About  as  large 
as  the  bud  of  a  forget-me-not !  Can  you  imagine  the  fineness 
of  the  little  pressures  of  the  hand  on  the  steel,  in  that  space, 
which  at  the  edge  of  the  almost  invisible  lip,  fashioned  its  less 
or  more  of  smile. 

My  chemical  friends,  if  you  wish  ever  to  know  anything 
rightly  concerning  the  arts,  I  very  urgently  advise  you  to 
throw  all  your  vials  and  washes  down  the  gutter-trap  ;  and 
if  you  will  ascribe,  as  you  think  it  so  clever  to  do3  in  your 


314 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


modern  creeds,  all  virtue  to  the  sun,  use  that  virtue  through 
your  own  heads  and  fingers,  and  apply  your  solar  energies  to 
draw  a  skilful  line  or  two,  for  once  or  twice  in  your  life.  You 
may  learn  more  by  trying  to  engrave,  like  Goodall,  the  tip  of 
an  ear,  or  the  curl  of  a  lock  of  hair,  than  by  photographing 
the  entire  population  of  the  "United  States  of  America, — black, 
white,  and  neutral-tint. 

And  one  word,  by  the  way,  touching  the  complaints  I  hear 
at  my  having  set  you  to  so  fine  work  that  it  hurts  your  eyes. 
You  have  noticed  that  all  great  sculptors — and  most  of  the 
great  painters  of  Florence — began  by  being  goldsmiths.  Why 
do  you  think  the  goldsmith's  apprenticeship  is  so  fruitful  ? 
Primarily,  because  it  forces  the  boy  to  do  small  work,  and 
mind  what  he  is  about.  Do  you  suppose  Michael  Angelo 
learned  his  business  by  dashing  or  hitting  at  it  ?  He  laid  the 
foundation  of  all  his  after  power  by  doing  precisely  what  I 
am  requiring  my  own  pupils  to  do, — copying  German  engrav- 
ings in  facsimile  !  And  for  your  eyes — you  all  sit  up  at  night 
till  you  haven't  got  any  eyes  worth  speaking  of.  Go  to  bed 
at  half-past  nine,  and  get  up  at  four,  and  you'll  see  something 
out  of  them,  in  time. 

124.  Nevertheless,  whatever  admiration  you  may  be  brought 
to  feel,  and  with  justice,  for  this  lovely  workmanship, — the 
more  distinctly  you  comprehend  its  merits,  the  more  distinctly 
also  will  the  question  rise  in  your  mind,  How  rs  it  that  a  per- 
formance so  marvellous  has  yet  taken  no  rauk  in  the  records 
of  art  of  any  permanent  or  acknowledged  kind  ?  How  is 
it  that  these  vignettes  from  Stothard  and  Turner,*  like  the 

*  I  must  again  qualify  the  too  sweeping  statement  of  the  text.  I 
think,  as  time  passes,  some  o£  these  nineteenth  century  line  engravings 
will  become  monumental.  The  first  vignette  of  the  garden,  with  the 
cut  hedges  and  fountain,  for  instance,  in  Rogers1  poems,  is  so  consum- 
mate in  its  use  of  every  possible  artifice  of  delicate  line,  (note  the  look 
of  tremulous  atmosphere  got  by  the  undulatory  etched  lines  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  the  broken  masses,  worked  with  dots,  of  the  fountain  foam,) 
that  I  think  it  cannot  but,  with  some  of  its  companions,  survive  the  ref- 
use of  its  school,  and  become  classic.  I  nnd  in  like  manner,  even  with 
all  their  faults  and  weaknesses,  the  vignettes  to  Heyne's  Virgil  to  be 
real  art-possessions. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING.  315 


woodcuts  from  Tenniel,  scarcely  make  the  name  of  the  en- 
graver known  ;  and  that  they  never  are  found  side  by  side  with 
this  older  and  apparently  ruder  art,  in  the  cabinets  of  men  of 
real  judgment.  The  reason  is  precisely  the  same  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Tenniel  woodcut.  This  modern  line  engraving  is 
alloyed  gold.  Rich  in  capacity,  astonishing  in  attainment,  it 
nevertheless  admits  wilful  fault,  and  misses  what  it  ought 
first  to  have  attained.  It  is  therefore,  to  a  certain  measure, 
vile  in  its  perfection  ;  while  the  older  work  is  noble  even  in 
its  failure,  and  classic  no  less  in  what  it  deliberately  refuses, 
than  in  what  it  rationally  and  rightly  prefers  and  performs. 

125.  Here,  for  instance,  I  have  enlarged  the  head  of  one  of 
Durer's  Madonnas  for  you  out  of  one  of  his  most  careful 
plates.*  You  think  it  very  ugly.  Well,  so  it  is.  Don't  be 
afraid  to  think  so,  nor  to  say  so.  Frightfully  ugly  ;  vulgar 
also.  It  is  the  head,  simply,  of  a  fat  Dutch  girl,  with  all  the 
pleasantness  left  out.  There  is  not  the  least  doubt  about 
that.  Don't  let  anybody  force  Albert  Durer  down  your 
throats  ;  nor  make  you  expect  pretty  things  from  him.  Stot- 
hard's  young  girl  in  the  swing,  or  Sir  Joshua's  Age  of  Inno- 
cence, are  in  quite  angelic  spheres  of  another  world,  compared 
to  this  black  domain  of  poor,  laborious  Albert.  We  are  not 
talking  of  female  beauty,  so  please  you,  just  now,  gentlemen, 
but  of  engraving.  And  the  merit,  the  classical,  indefeasible, 
immortal  merit  of  this  head  of  a  Dutch  girl  with  all  the 
beauty  left  out,  is  in  the  fact  that  every  line  of  it,  as  engrav- 
ing, is  as  good  as  can  be  ; — good,  not  with  the  mechanical 
dexterity  of  a  watchmaker,  but  with  the  intellectual  effort  and 
sensitiveness  of  an  artist  who  knows  precisely  what  can  be 
done,  and  ought  to  be  attempted,  with  his  assigned  materials. 
He  works  easily,  fearlessly,  flexibly  ;  the  dots  are  not  all  meas- 
ured in  distance  ;  the  lines  not  all  mathematically  parallel  or 
divergent.  He  has  even  missed  his  mark  at  the  mouth  in  one 
place,  and  leaves  the  mistake,  frankly.  But  there  are  no  pet- 
rified mistakes  ;  nor  is  the  eye  so  accustomed  to  the  look  of 

*  Plate  11th,  in  the  Appendix,  taken  from  the  engraving  of  the  Virgin 
sitting  in  the  fenced  garden,  with  two  angels  crowning  her. 


316 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


the  mechanical  furrow  as  to  accept  it  for 'final  excellence.  The 
engraving  is  full  of  the  painter's  higher  power  and  wider  per- 
ception ;  it  is  classically  perfect,  because  duly  subordinate, 
and  presenting  for  your  applause  only  the  virtues  proper  to 
its  own  sphere.  Among  these,  I  must  now  reiterate,  the  first 
of  all  is  the  decorative  arrangement  of  lines. 

126.  You  all  know  what  a  prett}'  thing  a  damask  table-cloth 
is,  and  how  a  pattern  is  brought  out  by  threads  running  one 
way  in  one  space,  and  across  in  another.  So,  in  lace,  a  cer- 
tain delightfulness  is  given  by  the  texture  of  meshed  lines. 

Similarly,  on  any  surface  of  metal,  the  object  of  the  en- 
graver is,  or  ought  to  be,  to  cover  it  with  lovely  lines,  forming 
a  lacework,  and  including  a  variety  of  spaces,  delicious  to  the 
eye. 

And  this  is  his  business,  primarily  ;  before  any  other  matter 
can  be  thought  of,  his  work  must  be  ornamental.  You  know 
I  told  you  a  sculptor's  business  is  first  to  cover  a  surface  with 
pleasant  bosses,  whether  they  mean  anything  or  not ;  so  an  en- 
graver's is  to  cover  it  with  pleasant  lines  whether  they  mean 
anything  or  not.  That  they  should  mean  something,  and  a 
good  deal  of  something,  is  indeed  desirable  afterwards ;  but 
first  we  must  be  ornamental. 

127.  Now  if  you  will  compare  Plate  II  at  the  beginning  of  this 
lecture,  which  is  a  characteristic  example  of  good  Florentine 
engraving,  and  represents  the  Planet  and  power  of  Aphro- 
dite, with  the  Aphrodite  of  Bewick  in  the  upper  division  of 
Plate  I.,  you  will  at  once  understand  the  difference  between  a 
primarily  ornamental,  and  a  primarily  realistic,  style.  The 
first  requirement  in  the  Florentine  work,  is  that  it  shall  be  a 
lovely  arrangement  of  lines  ;  a  pretty  thing  upon  a  page. 
Bewick  has  a  secondary  notion  of  making  his  vignette  a  pretty 
thing  upon  a  page.  But  he  is  overpowered  by  his  vigorous 
veracity,  and  bent  first  on  giving  you  his  idea  of  Venus.  Quite 
right,  he  would  have  been,  mind  you,  if  he  had  been  carving 
a  statue  of  her  on  Mount  Eryx  ;  but  not  when  he  was  engrav- 
ing a  vignette  to  iEsop's  fables.  To  engrave  well  is  to  orna- 
ment a  surface  well,  not  to  create  a  realistic  impression.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  my  repetitions  ;  but  the  point  at  issue  is  the 


Plate  ILL— At  Evening,  from  the  Top  of  Fesole. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  EN G HAVING.  317 


root  of  the  whole  business,  and  I  must  get  it  well  asserted, 
and  variously. 

Let  me  pass  to  a  more  important  example. 

128.  Three  years  ago,  in  the  rough  first  arrangement  of  the 
copies  in  the  Educational  Series,  I  put  an  outline  of  the  top  of 
Apollo's  sceptre,  which,  in  the  catalogue,  was  said  to  be  prob- 
ably by  Baccio  Banclini  of  Florence,  for  your  first  real  exer- 
cise ;  it  remains  so,  the  olive  being  put  first  only  for  its 
mythological  rank. 

The  series  of  engravings  to  which  the  plate  from  which  that 
exercise  is  copied  belongs,  are  part  of  a  number,  executed 
chiefly,  I  think,  from  early  designs  of  Sandro  Botticelli,  and 
some  in  great  part  by  his  hand.  He  and  his  assistant,  Baccio, 
worked  together  ;  and  in  such  harmony,  that  Bandini  proba- 
bly often  does  what  Sandro  wants,  better  than  Sandro  could 
have  done  it  himself  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  de- 
sign of  Bandini's  over  which  Sandro  does  not  seem  to  have 
had  influence. 

And  wishing  now  to  show  you  three  examples  of  the  finest 
work  of  the  old,  the  renaissance,  and  the  modern  schools, — 
of  the  old,  I  will  take  Baccio  Bandini's  Astrologia,  Plate  III, 
opposite.  Of  the  renaissance,  Durer's  Adam  and  Eve.  And 
of  the  modern,  this  head  of  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  en- 
graved from  Luim  by  Beaugrand,  which  is  as  affectionately 
and  sincerely  wrought,  though  in  the  modern  manner,  as  any 
plate  of  the  old  schools. 

129.  Now  observe  the  progress  of  the  feeling  for  light  and 
shade  in  the  three  examples. 

The  first  is  nearly  all  white  paper  ;  you  think  of  the  outline 
as  the  constructive  element  throughout. 

The  second  is  a  vigorous  piece  of  white  and  black — not  of 
light  and  shade, — for  all  the  high  lights  are  equally  white, 
whether  of  flesh,  or  leaves,  or  goat's  hair. 

The  third  is  complete  in  chiaroscuro,  as  far  as  engraving 
can  be. 

Now  the  dignity  and  virtue  of  the  plates  is  in  the  exactly 
inverse  ratio  of  their  fulness  in  chiaroscuro. 

Bandini's  is  excellent  work,  and  of  the  very  highest  school. 


318 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


Durer's  entirely  accomplished  work,  but  of  an  inferior  school 
And  Beaugrand's,  excellent  work,  but  of  a  vulgar  and  non- 
classical  school. 

And  these  relations  of  the  schools  are  to  be  determined  by 
the  quality  in  the  lines  ;  we  shall  find  that  in  proportion  as 
the  light  and  shade  is  neglected,  the  lines  are  studied  ;  that 
those  of  Bandini  are  perfect ;  of  Durer  perfect,  only  with  a 
lower  perfection  ;  but  of  Beaugrand,  entirely  faultful. 

130.  I  have  just  explained  to  you  that  in  modern  engraving 
the  lines  are  cut  in  clean  furrow,  widened,  it  may  be,  by  suc- 
cessive cuts ;  but,  whether  it  be  fine  or  thick,  retaining 
always,  when  printed,  the  aspect  of  a  continuous  line  drawn 
with  the  pen,  and  entirely  black  throughout  its  whole  course. 

Now  we  may  increase  the  delicacy  of  this  line  to  any  extent 
by  simply  printing  it  in  grey  colour  instead  of  black.  I  ob- 
tained some  very  beautiful  results  of  this  kind  in  the  later 
volumes  of  '  Modern  Painters/  with  Mr.  Armytage's  help,  by 
using  subdued  purple  tints  ;  but,  in  any  case,  the  line  thus 
engraved  must  be  monotonous  in  its  character,  and  cannot  be 
expressive  of  the  finest  qualities  of  form. 

Accordingly,  the  old  Florentine  workmen  constructed  the 
line  itself,  in  important  places,  of  successive  minute  touches, 
so  that  it  became  a  chain  of  delicate  links  which  could  be 
opened  or  closed  at  pleasure.*  If  you  will  examine  through 
a  lens  the  outline  of  the  face  of  this  Astrology,  you  will  find  it 
is  traced  with  an  exquisite  series  of  minute  touches,  suscepti- 
ble of  accentuation  or  change  absolutely  at  the  engraver  s 
pleasure  ;  and,  in  result,  corresponding  to  the  finest  condi- 
tions of  a  pencil  line  drawing  by  a  consummate  master.  In 
the  fine  plates  of  this  period,  you  have  thus  the  united  powers 
of  the  pen  and  pencil,  and  both  absolutely  secure  and  multi- 
pliable. 

*  The  method  was  first  developed  in  engraving  designs  on  silver — 
numbers  of  lines  being  executed  with  dots  by  the  punch,  for  variety's 
sake.  For  niello,  and  printing,  a  transverse  cut  was  substituted  for  the 
blow.  The  entire  style  is  connected  with  the  later  Roman  and  Byzan- 
tine method  of  drawing  lines  with  the  drill  hole,  in  marble.  See  above, 
Lecture  IX. %  Section  70. 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING.  319 


131.  I  am  a  little  proud  of  having  independently  discovered, 
and  had  the  patience  to  carry  out,  this  Florentine  method  of 
execution  for  myself,  when  I  was  a  boy  of  thirteen.  My  good 
drawing-master  had  given  me  some  copies  calculated  to  teach 
me  freedom  of  hand  ;  the  touches  were  rapid  and  vigorous, — ■ 
many  of  them  in  mechanically  regular  zigzags,  far  beyond  any 
capacity  of  mine  to  imitate  in  the  bold  way  in  which  they 
were  done.  But  I  was  resolved  to  have  them,  somehow ;  and 
actually  facsimilied  a  considerable  portion  of  the  drawing  in 
the  Florentine  manner,  with  the  finest  point  I  could  cut  to 
my  pencil,  taking  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  forge  out  the  like- 
ness of  one  return  in  the  zigzag  which  my  master  carried 
down  through  twenty  returns  in  two  seconds  ;  and  so  success- 
fully, that  he  did  not  detect  my  artifice  till  I  showed  it  him, — 
on  which  he  forbade  me  ever  to  do  the  like  again.  And  it 
was  only  thirty  years  afterwards  that  I  found  I  had  been  quite 
right  after  all,  and  working  like  Baccio  Bandini !  But  the 
patience  which  carried  me  through  that  early  effort,  served 
me  well  through  all  the  thirty  years,  and  enabled  me  to 
analyze,  and  in  a  measure  imitate,  the  method  of  work  em- 
ployed by  every  master ;  so  that,  whether  you  believe  me  or 
not  at  first,  you  will  find  what  I  tell  you  of  their  superiority, 
or  inferiority,  to  be  true. 

132.  When  lines  are  studied  with  this  degree  of  care  you 
may  be  sure  the  master  will  leave  room  enough  for  you  to  see 
them  and  enjoy  them,  and  not  use  any  at  random.  All  the 
finest  engravers,  therefore,  leave  much  white  paper,  and  use 
their  entire  power  on  the  outlines. 

133.  Next  to  them  come  the  men  of  the  Renaissance  schools, 
headed  by  Durer,  who,  less  careful  of  the  beauty  and  refine- 
ment of  the  line,  delight  in  its  vigour,  accuracy,  and  complex- 
ity. And  the  essential  difference  between  these  men  and  the 
moderns  is  that  these  central  masters  cut  their  line  for  the 
most  part  with  a  single  furrow,  giving  it  depth  by  force  of 
hand  or  wrist,  and  retouching,  not  in  the  farrow  itself,  but  with 
others  beside  it*    Such  work  can  only  be  done  well  on  copper, 

*  This  most  important  and  distinctive  character  was  pointed  out  to 
me  by  Mr.  Burgess. 


320 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TINA. 


and  it  can  display  all  faculty  of  Land  or  wrist,  precision  of 
eye,  and  accuracy  of  knowledge,  which  a  human  creature  can 
possess.  But  the  dotted  or  hatched  line  is  not  used  In  this 
central  style,  and  the  higher  conditions  of  beauty  never 
thought  of. 

In  the  Astrology  of  Bandini, — and  remember  that  the  As- 
trologia  of  the  Florentine  meant  what  we  mean  by  Astronomy, 
and  much  more, — he  wishes  you  first  to  look  at  the  face  :  the 
lip  half  open,  faltering  in  wonder ;  the  amazed,  intense, 
dreaming  gaze  ;  the  pure  dignity  of  forehead,  undisturbed  by 
terrestrial  thought.  None  of  these  things  could  be  so  much 
as  attempted  in  Durer's  method  ;  he  can  engrave  flowing  hair, 
skin  of  animals,  bark  of  trees,  wreathings  of  metal-work,  with 
the  free  hand  ;  also,  with  laboured  chiaroscuro,  or  with  sturdy 
line,  he  can  reach  expressions  of  sadness,  or  gloom,  or  pain, 
or  soldierly  strength, — but  pure  beauty, — never. 

134.  Lastly,  you  have  the  Modern  school,  deepening  its 
lines  in  successive  cuts.  The  instant  consequence  of  the  in- 
troduction of  this  method  is  the  restriction  of  curvature  ;  you 
cannot  follow  a  complex  curve  again  with  precision  through 
its  furrow.  If  you  are  a  dextrous  ploughman,  you  can  drive 
your  plough  any  number  of  times  along  the  simple  curve. 
But  you  cannot  repeat  again  exactly  the  motions  which  cut  a 
variable  one.*  You  may  retouch  it,  energize  it,  and  deepen 
it  in  parts,  but  you  cannot  cut  it  all  through  again  equally. 
And  the  retouching  and  energizing  in  parts  is  a  living  and  in- 
tellectual process  ;  but  the  cutting  all  through,  equally,  a  me- 
chanical one.  The  difference  is  exactly  such  as  that  between 
the  dexterity  of  turning  out  two  similar  mouldings  from  a 
lathe,  and  carving  them  with  the  free  hand,  like  a  Pisan  sculp- 
tor. And  although  splendid  intellect,  and  subtlest  sensibility, 
have  been  spent  on  the  production  of  some  modern  plates,  the 
mechanical  element  introduced  by  their  manner  of  execution 
always  overpowers  both  ;  nor  can  any  plate  of  consummate  value 
ever  he  produced  in  the  modern  method. 

135.  Nevertheless,  in  landscape,  there  are  two  examples  in 
your  Reference  series,  of  insuperable  skill  and  extreme  beauty : 

*  This  point  will  be  further  examined  and  explained  in  the  Appendix. 


Plate  IV.— "By  the  Springs  of  Parnassus." 


THE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGBAVINQ.  321 


Miller's  plate,  before  instanced,  of  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice  ; 
and  E.  Goodall's  of  the  upper  fall  of  the  Tees.  The  men  who 
engraved  these  plates  might  have  been  exquisite  artists ;  but 
their  patience  and  enthusiasm  were  held  captive  in  the  false 
system  of  lines,  and  we  lost  the  painters ;  while  the  engrav- 
ings, wonderful  as  they  are,  are  neither  of  them  worth  a 
Turner  etching,  scratched  in  ten  minutes  with  the  point  of  an 
old  fork  ;  and  the  common  types  of  such  elaborate  engraving 
are  none  of  them  worth  a  single  frog,  pig,  or  puppy,  out  of 
the  corner  of  a  Bewick  vignette. 

136.  And  now,  I  think,  you  cannot  fail  to  understand  clearly 
what  you  are  to  look  for  in  engraving,  as  a  separate  art  from 
that  of  painting.  Turn  back  to  the  ■  Astrologia '  as  a  perfect 
type  of  the  purest  school.  She  is  gazing  at  stars,  and  crowned 
with  them.  But  the  stars  are  black  instead  of  shining  !  You 
cannot  have  a  more  decisive  and  absolute  proof  that  you  must 
not  look  in  engraving  for  chiaroscuro. 

Nevertheless,  her  body  is  half  in  shade,  and  her  left  foot ; 
and  she  casts  a  shadow,  and  there  is  a  bar  of  shade  behind 
her. 

All  these  are  merely  so  much  acceptance  of  shade  as  may 
relieve  the  forms,  and  give  value  to  the  linear  portions.  The 
face,  though  turned  from  the  light,  is  shadowless. 

Again.  Every  lock  of  the  hair  is  designed  and  set  in  its 
place  with  the  subtlest  care,  but  there  is  no  lustre  attempted, 
— no  texture, — no  mystery.  The  plumes  of  the  wings  are  set 
studiously  in  their  places, — they,  also,  lustreless.  That  even 
their  filaments  are  not  drawn,  and  that  the  broad  curve  em- 
bracing them  ignores  the  anatomy  of  a  bird's  wing,  are  con- 
ditions of  design,  not  execution.  Of  these  in  a  future  lect- 
ure.* 

137.  The  'Poesia,'  Plate  IV.,  opposite,  is  a  still  more  severe, 
though  not  so  generic,  an  example  ;  its  decorative  foreground 
reducing  it  almost  to  the  rank  of  Goldsmith's  ornamentation. 
I  need  scarcely  point  out  to  you  that  the  flowing  water  shows 
neither  lustre  nor  reflection  ;  but  notice  that  the  observer's 
attention  is  supposed  to  be  so  close  to  every  dark  touch  of  the 

*  See  Appendix,  Article  I. 


322 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


graver  that  he  will  see  the  minute  dark  spots  which  indicate 
the  sprinkled  shower  falling  from  the  vase  into  the  pool. 

138.  This  habit  of  strict  and  calm  attention,  constant  in  the 
artist,  and  expected  in  the  observer,  makes  all  the  difference 
between  the  art  of  Intellect,  and  of  mere  sensation.  For 
every  detail  of  this  plate  has  a  meaning,  if  you  care  to  under- 
stand it.  This  is  Poetry,  sitting  by  the  fountain  of  Castalia, 
which  flows  first  out  of  a  formal  urn,  to  show  that  it  is  not 
artless ;  but  the  rocks  of  Parnassus  are  behind,  and  on  the 
top  of  them — only  one  tree,  like  a  mushroom  with  a  thick 
stalk.  You  at  first  are  inclined  to  say,  How  very  absurd,  to 
put  only  one  tree  on  Parnassus !  but  this  one  tree  is  the  Im- 
mortal Plane  Tree,  planted  by  Agamemnon,  and  at  once  con- 
nects our  Poesia  with  the  Iliad.  Then,  this  is  the  hem  of  the 
robe  of  Poetry, — this  is  the  divine  vegetation  which  springs 
up  under  her  feet, — this  is  the  heaven  and  earth  united  by  her 
power, — this  is  the  fountain  of  Castalia  flowing  out  afresh 
among  the  grass, — and  these  are  the  drops  with  which,  out  of 
a  pitcher,  Poetry  is  nourishing  the  fountain  of  Castalia. 

All  which  you  may  find  out  if  you  happen  to  know  anything 
about  Castalia,  or  about  poetry  ;  and  pleasantly  think  more 
upon,  for  yourself.  But  the  poor  dunces,  Sandro  and  Baccio, 
feeling  themselves  but  '  goffi.  neir  arte/  have  no  hope  of  telling 
you  all  this,  except  suggestively.  They  can't  engrave  grass  of 
Parnassus,  nor  sweet  springs  so  as  to  look  like  water ;  but 
they  can  make  a  pretty  damasked  surface  with  ornamental 
leaves,  and  flowing  lines,  and  so  leave  you  something  to  think 
of — if  you  will. 

139.  '  But  a  great  many  people  won't,  and  a  great  many 
more  can't ;  and  surely  the  finished  engravings  are  much  more 
delightful,  and  the  only  means  we  have  of  giving  any  idea  of 
finished  pictures,  out  of  our  reach.' 

Yes,  all  that  is  true  ;  and  when  we  examine  the  effects  of 
line  engraving  upon  taste  in  recent  art,  we  will  discuss  these 
matters  ;  for  the  present,  let  us  be  content  with  knowing  what 
the  best  work  is,  and  why  it  is  so.  Although,  however,  I  do 
not  now  press  further  my  cavils  at  the  triumph  of  modern 
line  engraving,  I  must  assign  to  you,  in  few  words,  the 


TEE  TECHNICS  OF  METAL  ENGRAVING. 


323 


reason  of  its  recent  decline.  Engravers  complain  that  pho- 
tography and  cheap  woodcutting  have  ended  their  finer  craft. 
No  complaint  can  be  less  grounded.  They  themselves  de- 
stroyed their  own  craft,  by  vulgarizing  it.  Content  in  their 
beautiful  mechanism,  they  ceased  to  learn,  and  to  feel,  as 
artists  ;  they  put  themselves  under  the  order  of  publishers 
and  printsellers  ;  they  worked  indiscriminately  from  whatever 
was  put  into  their  hands, — from  Bartlett  as  willingly  as  from 
Turner,  and  from  Mulready  as  carefully  as  from  Raphael. 
They  filled  the  windows  of  printsellers,  the  pages  of  gift  books, 
with  elaborate  rubbish,  and  piteous  abortions  of  delicate  in- 
dustry. They  worked  cheap,  and  cheaper, — smoothly,  and 
more  smoothly, — they  got  armies  of  assistants,  and  surrounded 
themselves  with  schools  of  mechanical  tricksters,  learning 
their  stale  tricks  with  blundering  avidity.  They  had  fallen — 
before  the  days  of  photography — into  providers  of  frontis- 
pieces for  housekeepers'  pocket-books.  I  do  not  know  if 
photography  itself,  their  redoubted  enemy,  has  even  now 
ousted  them  from  that  last  refuge. 

140.  Such  the  fault  of  the  engraver, — very  pardonable ; 
scarcely  avoidable, — however  fatal.  Fault  mainly  of  humility. 
But  what  has  your  fault  been,  gentlemen  ?  what  the  patrons' 
fault,  who  have  permitted  so  wide  waste  of  admirable  labour, 
so  pathetic  a  uselessness  of  obedient  genius  ?  It  was  yours  to 
have  directed,  yours  to  have  raised  and  rejoiced  in,  the  skill, 
the  modesty,  the  patience  of  this  entirely  gentle  and  indus- 
trious race  ; — copyists  with  their  heart.  The  common  painter- 
copyists  who  encumber  our  European  galleries  with  their 
easels  and  pots,  are,  almost  without  exception,  persons  too 
stupid  to  be  painters,  and  too  lazy  to  be  engravers.  The  real 
copyists — the  men  who  can  put  their  soul  into  another's  work 
— are  employed  at  home,  fei  their  narrow  rooms,  striving  to 
make  their  good  work  profitable  to  all  men.  And  in  their 
submission  to  the  public  taste  they  are  trufy  national  servants 
as  much  as  Prime  Ministers  are.  They  fulfil  the  demand  of 
the  nation  ;  what,  as  a  people,  you  wish  to  have  for  possession 
in  art,  these  men  are  ready  to  give  you. 

And  what  have  you  hitherto  asked  of  them? — Bamsgate 


324 


ARIADNE  FL  ORENTINA. 


Sands,  and  Dolly  Vardens,  and  the  Paddington  Station,-^ 
these,  I  think,  are  typical  of  your  chief  demands  ;  the  cartoons 
of  Raphael — which  you  don't  care  to  see  themselves  ;  and,  by 
way  of  a  flight  into  the  empyrean,  the  Madonna  di  San  Sisto. 
And,  literally,  there  are  hundreds  of  cities  and  villages  in 
Italy  in  which  roof  and  wall  are  blazoned  with  the  noblest 
divinity  and  philosophy  ever  imagined  by  men  ;  and  of  all 
this  treasure,  I  can,  as  far  as  I  know,  give  you  not  one  ex- 
ample, in  line  engraving,  by  an  English  hand  ! 

Well,  you  are  in  the  main  matter  right  in  this.  You  want 
essentially  Ramsgate  Sands  and  the  Paddington  Station,  be- 
cause there  you  can  see  yourselves. 

Make  yourselves,  then,  worthy  to  be  seen  for  ever,  and  let 
English  engraving  become  noble  as  the  record  of  English 
loveliness  and  honour. 


LECTURE  V. 

DESIGN  IN  THE  GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OE  ENGRAVING. 

141.  By  reference  to  the  close  of  the  preface  to  'Eagle's 
Nest/  you  will  see,  gentlemen,  that  I  meant  these  lectures, 
from  the  first,  rather  to  lead  you  to  the  study  of  the  char- 
acters of  two  great  men,  than  to  interest  you  in  the  processes 
of  a  secondary  form  of  art.  As  I  draw  my  materials  into  the 
limited  form  necessary  for  the  hour,  I  find  my  divided  pur- 
pose doubly  failing  ;  and  would  fain  rather  use  my  time  to- 
day in  supplying  the  defects  of  my  last  lecture,  than  in 
opening  the  greater  subject,  which  I  must  treat  with  still 
more  lamentable  inadequacy.  Nevertheless,  you  must  not 
think  it  is  for  want  of  time  ihift  I  omit  reference  to  other 
celebrated  engravers,  and  insist  on  the  special  power  of  these 
two  only.  Many  not  inconsiderable  reputations  are  founded 
merely  on  the  curiosity  of  collectors  of  prints,  or  on  partial 
skill  in  the  management  of  processes  ;  others,  though  resting 
on  more  secure  bases,  are  still  of  no  importance  to  you  in  the 
general  history  of  art ;  whereas  you  will  find  the  work  of 


GERMAN  BGHOOLS  OF  ENGEA  V1NG. 


325 


Holbein  and  Botticelli  determining  for  you,  without  need  of 
any  farther  range,  the  principal  questions  of  moment  in  the 
relation  of  the  Northern  and  Southern  schools  of  design. 
Nay,  a  wider  method  of  inquiry  would  only  render  your  com- 
parison less  accurate  in  result.  It  is  only  in  Holbein's  majestic 
range  of  capacity,  and  only  in  the  particular  phase  of  Teutonic 
life  which  his  art  adorned,  that  the  problem  can  be  dealt  with 
on  fair  terms.  We  Northerns  can  advance  no  fairly  compara- 
ble antagonist  to  the  artists  of  the  South,  except  at  that  one 
moment,  and  in  that  one  man.  Rubens  cannot  for  an  instant 
be  matched  with  Tintoret,  nor  Memling  with  Lippi ;  while 
Reynolds  only  rivals  Titian  in  what  he  learned  from  him. 
But  in  Holbein  and  Botticelli  we  have  two  men  trained  in- 
dependently, equal  in  power  of  intellect,  similiar  in  material 
and  mode  of  work,  contemporary  in  age,  correspondent  in 
disposition.  The  relation  between  them  is  strictly  typical  of 
the  constant  aspects  to  each  other  of  the  Northern  and  South- 
ern schools. 

142.  Their  point  of  closest  contact  is  in  the  art  of  engrav- 
ing, and  this  art  is  developed  entirely  as  the  servant  of  the 
great  passions  which  perturbed  or  polluted  Europe  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  The  impulses  which  it  obeys  are  all  new  ; 
and  it  obeys  them  with  its  own  nascent  plasticity  of  temper. 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  only  modified  by  them  ;  but  en- 
graving is  educated. 

These  passions  are  in  the  main  three  ;  namely, 

1.  The  thirst  for  classical  literature,  and  the  forms  of  proud 

and  false  tastes  which  arose  out  of  it,  in  the  position  it 
had  assumed  as  the  enemy  of  Christianity. 

2.  The  pride  of  science,  enforcing  (in  the  particular  do- 

main of  Art)  accuracy  of  perspective,  shade,  and  anat- 
omy, never  before  dreamed  of. 

3.  The  sense  of  error  and  iniquity  in  the  theological  teach- 

ing of  the  Christian  Church,  felt  by  the  highest  intel- 
lects of  the  time,  and  necessarily  rendering  the  formerly 
submissive  religious  art  impossible. 


326 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


Ib-clay,  then,  our  task  is  to  examine  the  peculiar  characters 
©f  the  Design  of  the  Northern  Schools  of  Engraving,  as  af- 
fected by  these  great  influences. 

143.  I  have  not  often,  however,  used  the  word  '  design,'  and 
must  clearly  define  the  sense  in  which  I  now  use  it.  It  is 
vaguely  used  in  common  art-parlance  ;  often  as  if  it  meant 
merely  the  drawing  of  a  picture,  as  distinct  from  its  colour  ; 
and  in  other  still  more  inaccurate  ways.  The  accurate  and 
proper  sense,  underlying  all  these,  I  must  endeavour  to  make 
clear  to  you. 

'  Design '  properly  signifies  that  power  in  any  art -work 
which  has  a  purpose  other  than  of  imitation,  and  which  is 
'  designed,'  composed,  or  separated  to  that  end.  It  implies 
the  rejection  of  some  things,  and  the  insistance  upon  others, 
with  a  given  object.* 

Let  us  take  progressive  instances.  Here  is  a  group  of 
prettily  dressed  peasant  children,  charmingly  painted  by  a 
very  able  modern  artist — not  absolutely  without  design,  for 
he  really  wishes  to  show  you  how  pretty  peasant  children  can 
be,  (and,  in  so  far,  is  wiser  and  kinder  than  Murillo,  who 
likes  to  show  how  ugly  they  can  be) ;  also,  his  group  is  agree- 
ably arranged,  and  its  component  children  carefully  chosen. 
Nevertheless,  any  summer's  day,  near  any  country  village,  you 
may  come  upon  twenty  groups  in  an  hour  as  pretty  as  this  ; 

*  If  you  paint  a  bottle  only  to  amuse  the  spectator  by  showing  him 
how  like  a  painting  maybe  to  a  bottle,  you  cannot  be  considered,  in  art- 
philosophy,  as  a  designer.  But  if  you  paint  the  cork  flying  out  of  the 
bottle,  and  the  contents  arriving  in  an  arch  at  the  mouth  of  a  recipient 
glass,  you  are  so  far  forth  a  designer  or  signer ;  probably  meaning  to 
express  certain  ultimate  facts  respecting,  say,  the  hospitable  disposition 
of  the  landlord  of  the  house  ;  but  at  all  events  representing  the  bottle 
and  glass  in  a  designed,  and  not  merely  natural,  manner.  Not  merely 
natural — nay,  in  some  sense  non -natural,  or  supernatural.  And  all 
great  artists  show  both  this  fantastic  condition  of  mind  in  their  work, 
and  show  that  it  has  arisen  out  of  a  communicative  or  didactic  purpose. 

They  are  the  Sign-painters  of  God. 

I  have  added  this  note  to  the  lecture  in  copying  my  memoranda  of  it 
here  at  Assisi,  June  9th,  being  about  to  begin  work  in  the  Tavern,  or 
Tabernaculum,  of  the  Lower  Church,  with  its  variously  significant  four 
g*eat  '  signs. ' 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  EN ORA  VING. 


327 


and  may  see — if  you  have  eyes — children  in  them  twenty  times 
prettier  than  these.  A  photograph,  if  it  could  render  them 
perfectly,  and  in  colour,  would  far  excel  the  charm  of  this 
painting  ;  for  in  it,  good  and  clever  as  it  is,  there  is  nothing 
supernatural,  and  much  that  is  sub-natural. 

144.  Beside  this  group  of,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  c  art- 
less '  little  country  girls,  I  will  now  set  one — in  the  best  sense 
of  the  word — 6  artful '  little  country  girl, — a  sketch  b}r  Gains- 
borough. 

You  never  saw  her  like  before.  Never  will  again,  now  that 
Gainsborough  is  dead.  No  photography, — no  science, — no 
industry,  will  touch  or  reach  for  an  instant  this  st/per-natural- 
ness.  You  will  look  vainly  through  the  summer  fields  for 
such  a  child.  "Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  by  the  wood,"  is  she. 
Whence  do  you  think  this  marvellous  charm  has  come  ? 
Alas  !  if  we  knew,  would  not  we  all  be  Gainsboroughs  ?  This 
only  you  may  practically  ascertain,  as  surely  as  that  a  flower 
will  die  if  you  cut  its  root  away,  that  you  cannot  alter  a  sin- 
gle touch  in  Gainsborough's  work  without  injury  to  the  whole. 
Half  a  dozen  spots,  more  or  less,  in  the  printed  gowns  of 
these  other  children  whom  I  first  showed  you,  will  not  make 
the  smallest  difference  to  them  ;  nor  a  lock  or  two  more  or 
less  in  their  hair,  nor  a  dimple  or  two  more  or  less  in  their 
cheeks.  But  if  you  alter  one  wave  of  the  hair  of  Gains- 
borough's girl,  the  child  is  gone.  Yet  the  art  is  so  subtle, 
that  I  do  not  expect  you  to  believe  this.  It  looks  so  instinc- 
tive, so  easy,  so  '  chanceux,' — the  French  word  is  better  than 
ours.  Yes,  and  in  their  more  accurate  sense,  also,  'Hade  la 
chance.'  A  stronger  Designer  than  he  was  with  him.  He 
could  not  tell  you  himself  how  the  thing  was  done. 

145.  I  proceed  to  take  a  more  definite  instance— this  Greek 
head  of  the  Lacinian  Juno.  The  design  or  appointing  of  the 
forms  now  entirely  prevails  over  the  resemblance  to  Nature. 
No  real  hair  could  ever  be  drifted  into  these  wild  lines,  which 
mean  the  wrath  of  the  Adriatic  winds  round  the  Cape  of 
Storms. 

And  yet,  whether  this  be  uglier  or  prettier  than  Gains- 
borough's child — (and  you  know  already  what  /  think  about 


328 


ABIADNE  FLORENTINE 


it,  that  no  Greek  goddess  was  ever  half  so  pretty  as  an 
English  girl,  of  pure  clay  and  temper,) — uglier  or  prettier,  it 
is  more  dignified  and  impressive.  It  at  least  belongs  to  the 
domain  of  a  lordlier,  more  majestic,  more  guiding,  and  or- 
daining art. 

146.  I  will  go  back  another  five  hundred  years,  and  place 
an  Egyptian  beside  the  Greek  divinity.  The  resemblance  to 
Nature  is  now  all  but  lost,  the  ruling  law  has  become  all 
The  lines  are  reduced  to  an  easily  counted  number,  and  their 
arrangement  is  little  more  than  a  decorative  sequence  of 
pleasant  curves  cut  in  porphyry, — in  the  upper  part  of  their 
contour  following  the  outline  of  a  woman's  face  in  profile, 
over-crested  by  that  of  a  hawk,  on  a  kind  of  pedestal.  But 
that  the  sign-engraver  meant  by  his  hawk,  Immortality,  and 
by  her  pedestal,  the  House  or  Tavern  of  Truth,  is  of  little  im- 
portance now  to  the  passing  traveller,  not  yet  preparing  to 
take  the  sarcophagus  for  his  place  of  rest. 

147.  How  many  questions  are  suggested  to  us  by  these 
transitions !  Is  beauty  contrary  to  law,  and  grace  attainable 
only  through  license  ?  What  we  gain  in  language,  shall  we 
lose  in  thought  ?  and  in  what  we  add  of  labour,  more  and 
more  forget  its  ends  ? 

Not  so. 

Look  at  this  piece  of  Sandro's  work,  the  Libyan  Sibyl.* 
It  is  as  ordered  and  normal  as  the  Egyptian's  ; — as  graceful 
and  facile  as  Gainsborough's.    It  retains  the  majesty  of  old 
religion  ;  it  is  invested  with  the  joy  of  newly-awakened  child- 
hood. 

Mind,  I  do  not  expect  you — do  not  wish  you — to  enjoy 
Botticelli's  dark  engraving  as  much  as  Gainsborough's  aerial 
sketch  ;  for  due  comparison  of  the  men,  painting  should  be 
put  beside  painting.  But  there  is  enough  even  in  this  copy 
of  the  Florentine  plate  to  show  you  the  junction  of  the  two 
powers  in  it — of  prophecy,  and  delight. 

148.  Will  these  two  powers,  do  you  suppose,  be  united  in 
the  same  manner  in  the  contemporary  Northern  art  ?  That- 
Northern  school  is  my  subject  to-day  ;  and  yet  I  give  you,  as 

*  Plate  X.,  Lecture  VI. 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


329 


type  of  the  intermediate  condition  between  Egypt  and  Eng- 
land— not  Holbein,  but  Botticelli.  I  am  obliged  to  do  this ; 
because  in  the  Southern  art,  the  religious  temper  remains  un- 
conquered  by  the  doctrines  of  the  Beformation.  Botticelli 
was — what  Luther  wished  to  be,  but  could  not  be — a  re- 
former still  believing  in  the  Church  :  his  mind  is  at  peace  ; 
and  his  art,  therefore,  can  pursue  the  delight  of  beauty,  and 
yet  remain  prophetic.  But  it  was  far  otherwise  in  Germany. 
There  the  Beformation  of  manners  became  the  destruction  of 
faith  ;  and  art  therefore,  not  a  prophecy,  but  a  protest.  It  is 
the  chief  work  of  the  greatest  Protestant  who  ever  lived,* 
which  I  ask  you  to  study  with  me  to-day. 

149.  I  said  that  the  power  of  engraving  had  developed  itself 
during  the  introduction  of  three  new — (practically  and  vitally 
new,  that  is  to  say) — elements,  into  the  minds  of  men  :  ele- 
ments which  briefly  may  be  expressed  thus : 

1.  Classicism,  and  Literary  Science. 

2.  Medicine,  and  Physical  Science. f 

3.  Beformation,  and  Beligious  Science. 

And  first  of  Classicism. 

You  feel,  do  not  you,  in  this  typical  work  of  Gainsbor- 
ough's, that  his  subject  as  well  as  his  picture  is  '  artless ?  in  a 
lovely  sense  ; — nay,  not  only  artless,  but  ignorant,  and  un- 
scientific, in  a  beautiful  way  ?  You  would  be  afterwards 
remorseful,  I  think,  and  angry  with  yourself — seeing  the 
effect  produced  on  her  face — if  you  were  to  ask  this  little  lady 

*  I  do  not  mean  the  greatest  teacher  of  reformed  faith  ;  but  the 
greatest  protestant  against  faith  anreformed. 

f  It  has  become  the  permitted  fashion  among  modern  mathemati- 
cians, chemists,  and  apothecaries,  to  call  themselves  '  scientific  men/  as 
opposed  to  theologians,  poets,  and  artists.  They  know  their  sphere  to 
be  a  separate  one  ;  but  their  ridiculous  notion  of  its  being  a  peculiarly 
scientific  one  ought  not  to  be  allowed  in  our  Universities.  There  is  a 
science  of  Morals,  a  science  of  History,  a  science  of  Grammar,  a  science 
of  Music,  and  a  science  of  Painting;  and  all  these  are  quite  beyond 
comparison  higher  fields  for  human  intellect,  and  require  accuracies  of 
intenser  observation,  than  either  chemistry,  electricity,  or  geology. 


330 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


to  spell  a  very  long  word  ?  Also,  if  you  wished  to  know  how 
many  times  the  sevens  go  in  forty-nine,  you  would  perhaps 
wisely  address  yourself  elsewhere.  On  the  other  hand,  you 
do  not  doubt  that  tins  lady*  knows  very  well  how  many  times, 
the  sevens  go  in  forty-nine,  and  is  more  Mistress  of  Arts  than 
any  of  us  are  Masters  of  them. 

150.  You  have  then,  in  the  one  case,  a  beautiful  simplicity, 
and  a  blameless  ignorance  ;  in  the  other,  a  beautiful  artful- 
ness, and  a  wisdom  which  you  do  not  dread, — or,  at  least, 
even  though  dreading,  love.  But  you  know  also  that  wre  may 
remain  in  a  hateful  and  culpable  ignorance  ;  and,  as  I  fear 
too  many  of  us  in  competitive  effort  feel,  become  possessed  of 
a  hateful  knowledge. 

Ignorance,  therefore,  is  not  evil  absolutely  ;  but,  innocent, 
may  be  loveable. 

Knowledge  also  is  not  good  absolutely  ;  but,  guilty,  may 
be  hateful. 

So,  therefore,  when  I  now.  repeat  my  former  statement,  that 
the  first  main  opposition  between  the  Northern  and  Southern 
schools  is  in  the  simplicity  of  the  one,  and  the  scholarship  of 
the  other,  that  statement  may  imply  sometimes  the  superiority 
of  the  North,  and  sometimes  of  the  South.  You  may  have  a 
heavenly  simplicity  opposed  to  a  hellish  (that  is  to  say,  a  lust- 
ful and  arrogant)  scholarship  ;  or  you  may  have  a  barbarous 
and  presumptuous  ignorance  opposed  to  a  divine  and  dis- 
ciplined wisdom.  Ignorance  opposed  to  learning  in  both 
cases ;  but  evil  to  good,  as  the  case  may  be. 

151.  For  instance  :  the  last  time  I  was  standing  before  Ra- 
phael's arabesques  in  the  Loggias  of  the  Vatican,  I  wrote  down 
in  my  pocket-book  the  description,  or,  more  modestly  speak- 
ing, the  inventory,  of  the  small  portion  of  that  infinite  wilder- 
ness of  sensual  fantasy  which  happened  to  be  opposite  me. 
It  consisted  of  a  woman's  face,  with  serpents  for  hair,  and  a 
virgin's  breasts,  with  stumps  for  arms,  ending  in  blue  butter- 
flies' wings,  the  whole  changing  at  the  waist  into  a  goat's  body, 
which  ended  below  in  an  obelisk  upside-down,  to  the  apex  at 


*  The  Cumsean  Sibyl,  Plate  VII.,  Lecture  VL 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  331 


the  bottom  of  which  were  appended,  by  graceful  chains,  an 
altar,  and  two  bunches  of  grapes. 

Now  you  know  in  a  moment,  by  a  glance  at  this  *  design ' — ■ 
beautifully  struck  with  free  hand,  and  richly  gradated  in 
colour, — that  the  master  was  familiar  with  a  vast  range  of  art 
and  literature  :  that  he  knew  all  about  Egyptian  sphinxes,  and 
Greek  Gorgons  ;  about  Egyptian  obelisks,  and  Hebrew  altars  ; 
about  Hermes,  and  Venus,  and  Bacchus,  and  satyrs,  and  goats, 
and  grapes. 

You  know  also — or  ought  to  know,  in  an  instant, — that  all 
this  learning  has  done  him  no  good  ;  that  he  had  better  have 
known  nothing  than  any  of  these  things,  since  they  were  to 
be  used  by  him  only  to  such  purpose  ;  and  that  his  delight  in 
armless  breasts,  legless  trunks,  and  obelisks  upside-down,  has 
been  the  last  effort  of  his  expiring  sensation,  in  the  grasp  of 
corrupt  and  altogether  victorious  Death.  And  you  have  thus, 
in  Gainsborough  as  compared  with  Raphael,  a  sweet,  sacred, 
and  living  simplicity,  set  against  an  impure,  profane,  and  para- 
lyzed knowledge. 

152.  But,  next,  let  us  consider  the  reverse  conditions. 

Let  us  take  instance  of  contrast  between  faultful  and 
treacherous  ignorance,  and  divinely  pure  and  fruitful  knowl- 
edge. 

In  the  place  of  honour  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  rooms  of 
your  Royal  Academy — years  ago — stood  a  picture  by  an  Eng- 
lish Academician,  announced  as  a  representation  of  Moses  sus- 
tained by  Aaron  and  Hur,  during  the  discomfiture  of  Amalek. 
In  the  entire  range  of  the  Pentateuch,  there  is  no  other  scene 
(in  which  the  visible  agents  are  mortal  only)  requiring  so 
much  knowledge  and  thought  to  reach  even  a  distant  approxi- 
mation to  the  probabilities  of  the  fact.  One  saw  in  a  moment 
that  the  painter  was  both  powerful  and  simple,  after  a  sort ; 
that  he  had  really  sought  for  a  vital  conception,  and  had  orig- 
inally and  earnestly  read  his  text,  and  formed  his  conception. 
And  one  saw  also  in  a  moment  that  he  had  chanced  upon  this 
subject,  in  reading  or  hearing  his  Bible,  as  he  might  have 
chanced  on  a  dramatic  scene  accidentally  in  the  street.  That 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  character  of  Moses, — nothing  of  his 


332 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


law,- -nothing  of  the  character  of  Aaron,  nor  of  the  nature  of 
a  priesthood, — nothing  of  the  meaning  of  the  event  which  he 
was  endeavouring  to  represent,  of  the  temper  in  which  it 
would  have  been  transacted  by  its  agents,  or  of  its  relations 
to  modern  life. 

153.  On  the  contrary,  in  the  fresco  of  the  earlier  scenes  in 
the  life  of  Moses,  by  Sandro  Botticelli,  you  know — not  '  in  a 
moment,'  for  the  knowledge  of  knowledge  cannot  be  so  .ob- 
tained ;  but  in  proportion  to  the  discretion  of  your  own  read- 
ing, and  to  the  care  you  give  to  the  picture,  you  may  know,— 
that  here  is  a  sacredly  guided  and  guarded  learning ;  here  a 
Master  indeed,  at  whose  feet  you  may  sit  safely,  wTho  can  teach 
you,  better  than  in  words,  the  significance  of  both  Moses'  law 
and  Aaron's  ministry  ;  and  not  only  these,  but,  if  he  chose, 
could  add  to  this  an  exposition  as  complete  of  the  highest 
philosophies  both  of  the  Greek  nation,  and  of  his  own  ;  and 
could  as  easily  have  painted,  had  it  been  asked  of  him,  Draco, 
or  Numa,  or  Justinian,  as  the  herdsman  of  Jethro. 

154.  It  is  rarely  that  we  can  point  to  an  opposition  between 
faultful,  because  insolent,  ignorance,  and  virtuous,  because 
gracious,  knowledge,  so  direct,  and  in  so  parallel  elements,  as 
in  this  instance.  In  general,  the  analysis  is  much  more  com- 
plex. It  is  intensely  difficult  to  indicate  the  mischief  of  in- 
voluntary and  modest  ignorance,  calamitous  only  in  a  measure ; 
fruitful  in  its  lower  field,  yet  sorrowfully  condemned  to  that 
lower  field — not  by  sin,  but  fate. 

When  first  I  introduced  you  to  Bewick,  we  closed  our 
too  partial  estimate  of  his  entirely  magnificent  powers  with 
one  sorrowful  concession — he  could  draw  a  pig,  but  not  a 
Venus. 

Eminently  he  could  so,  because — which  is  still  more  sorrow- 
fully to  be  conceded — he  liked  the  pig  best.  I  have  put  now 
in  your  educational  series  a  whole  galaxy  of  pigs  by  him  ; 
but,  hunting  all  the  fables  through,  I  find  only  one  Venus, 
and  I  think  you  will  all  admit  that  she  is  an  unsatisfactory 
Venus.  *  There  is  honest  simplicity  here  ;  but  you  regret  it ; 
you  miss  something  that  you  find  in  Holbein,  much  more  in 
*  Lecture  III.,  p.  57. 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRA  VINO. 


333 


Botticelli.  You  see  in  a  moment  that  this  man  knows  nothing 
of  Sphinxes,  or  Muses,  or  Graces,  or  Aphrodites ;  and,  be- 
sides, that,  knowing  nothing,  he  would  have  no  liking  for 
them  even  if  he  saw  them  ;  but  much  prefers  the  style  of  a 
well-to-do  English  housekeeper  with  corkscrew  curls,  and  a 
portly  person. 

155.  You  miss  something,  I  said,  in  Bewick  which  you  find 
in  Holbein.  But  do  you  suppose  Holbein  himself,  or  any 
other  Northern  painter,  could  wholly  quit  himself  of  the  like 
accusations  ?  I  told  you,  in  the  second  of  these  lectures,  that 
the  Northern  temper,  refined  from  savageness,  and  the  South- 
ern, redeemed  from  decay,  met,  in  Florence.  Holbein  and 
Botticelli  are  the  purest  types  of  the  two  races.  Holbein  is  a 
civilized  boor ;  Botticelli  a  reanimate  Greek.  Holbein  was 
polished  by  companionship  with  scholars  and  kings,  but  re- 
mains always  a  burgher  of  Augsburg  in  essential  nature. 
Bewick  and  he  are  alike  in  temper ;  only  the  one  is  untaught, 
the  other  perfectly  taught.  But  Botticelli  needs  no  teaching. 
He  is,  by  his  birth,  scholar  and  gentleman  to  the  heart's  core. 
Christianity  itself  can  only  inspire  him,  not  refine  him.  He  is 
as  tried  gold  chased  by  the  jeweller, — the  roughest  part  of 
him  is  the  outside. 

Now  how  differently  must  the  newly  recovered  scholastic 
learning  tell  upon  these  two  men.  It  is  all  out  of  Holbein's 
way  ;  foreign  to  his  nature,  useless  at  the  best,  probably  cum- 
brous. But  Botticelli  receives  it  as  a  child  in  later  years  re- 
covers the  forgotten  dearness  of  a  nursery  tale  ;  and  is  more 
himself,  and  again  and  again  himself,  as  he  breathes  the  air 
of  Greece,  and  hears,  in  his  own  Italy,  the  lost  voice  of  the 
Sibyl  murmur  again  by  the  Avernus  Lake. 

156.  It  is  not,  as  we  have  seen,  every  one  of  the  Southern 
race  who  can  thus  receive  it.  But  it  graces  them  all ;  is  at 
once  a  part  of  their  being  ;  destroys  them,  if  it  is  to  destroy, 
the  more  utterly  because  it  so  enters  into  their  natures.  It 
destroys  Raphael  ;  but  it  graces  him,  and  is  a  part  of  him. 
It  all  but  destroys  Mantegna ;  but  it  graces  him.  And  it 
does  not  hurt  Holbein,  just  because  it  does  not  grace  him — 
never  is  for  an  instant  a  part  of  him.    It  is  with  Raphael  as 


334  ARIADNE  FLORENTWA. 

with  some  charming  young  girl  who  has  a  new  and  beauti* 
fully  made  dress  brought  to  her,  which  entirely  becomes  her, 
— so  much,  that  in  a  little  while,  thinking  of  nothing  else,  she 
becomes  it ;  and  is  only  the  decoration  of  her  dress.  But 
with  Holbein  it  is  as  if  you  brought  the  same  dress  to  a  stout 
farmer's  daughter  who  was  going  to  dine  at  the  Hall ;  and 
begged  her  to  put  it  on  that  she  might  not  discredit  the  com- 
pany. She  puts  it  on  to  please  you  ;  looks  entirely  ridiculous 
in  it,  but  is  not  spoiled  by  it,  —  remains  herself,  in  spite 
of  it. 

157.  You  probably  have  never  noticed  the  extreme  awk- 
wardness of  Holbein  in  wearing  this  new  dress  ;  you  would 
the  less  do  so  because  his  own  people  think  him  all  the  finer 
for  it,  as  the  farmer's  wife  would  probably  think  her  daughter. 
Dr.  Woltmann,  for  instance,  is  enthusiastic  in  praise  of  the 
splendid  architecture  in  the  background  of  his  Annunciation. 
A  fine  mess  it  must  have  made  in  the  minds  of  simple  German 
maidens,  in  their  notion  of  the  Virgin  at  home  !  I  cannot 
show  you  this  Annunciation  ;  but  I  have  under  my  hand  one 
of  Holbein's  Bible  cuts,  of  the  deepest  seriousness  and  import 
— his  illustration  of  the  Canticles,  show- 
ing the  Church  as  the  bride  of  Christ. 

You  could  not  find  a  subject  requir- 
ing more  tenderness,  purity,  or  dignity 
of  treatment.  In  this  maid,  symboliz- 
ing the  Church,  you  ask  for  the  most 
passionate  humility,  the  most  angelic 
beauty  :  "  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my 
dove."  Now  here  is  Holbein's  ideal  of 
that  fairness ;  here  is  his  "  Church  as 
the  Bride." 

I  am  sorry  to  associate  this  figure  in 
your  minds,  even  for  a  moment,  with 
the  passages  it  is  supposed  to  illustrate  ; 
but  the  lesson  is  too  important  to  be 
omitted.  Remember,  Holbein  represents  the  temper  of 
Northern  Reformation.  He  has  all  the  nobleness  of  that 
temper,  but  also  all  its  baseness.   He  represents,  indeed,  the 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENORA  VINO. 


335 


revolt  of  German  truth  against  Italian  lies  ;  but  be  represents 
also  the  revolt  of  German  animalism  against  Hebrew  imagina- 
tion. This  figure  of  Holbein's  is  half-way  from  Solomon's 
mystic  bride,  to  Rembrandt's  wife,  sitting  on  his  knee  while 
he  drinks. 

But  the  key  of  the  question  is  not  in  this.  Florentine 
animalism  has  at  this  time,  also,  enough  to  say  for  itself.  But 
Florentine  animalism,  at  this  time,  feels  the  joy  of  a  gentle- 
man, not  of  a  churl.  And  a  Florentine,  whatever  he  does, — 
be  it  virtuous  or  sinful,  chaste  or  lascivious,  severe  or  extrava- 
gant,— does  it  with  a  grace. 

158.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  Holbein's  Solomon's  bride  is 
so  ungraceful  chiefly  because  she  is  overdressed,  and  has  too 
many  feathers  and  jewels.  No  ;  a  Florentine  would  have  put 
any  quantity  of  feathers  and  jewels  on  her,  and  yet  never  lost 
her  grace.  You  shall  see  him  do  it,  and  that  to  a  fantastic 
degree,  for  I  have  an  example  under  my  hand.  Look  back, 
first,  to  Bewick's  Venus  (Lect.  III.,  p.  57).  You  can't  accuse 
her  of  being  overdressed.  She  complies  with  every  received 
modern  principle  of  taste.  Sir  Joshua's  precept  that  drapery 
should  be  "drapery,  and  nothing  more,"  is  observed  more 
strictly  even  by  Bewick  than  by  Michael  Angelo.  If  the  ab- 
sence of  decoration  could  exalt  the  beauty  of  his  Venus,  here 
had  been  her  perfection. 

Now  look  back  to  Plate  II.  (Lect.  IV.),  by  Sandro  ;  Venus 
in  her  planet,  the  ruling  star  of  Florence.  Anything  more 
grotesque  in  conception,  more  unrestrained  in  fancy  of  orna- 
ment, you  cannot  find,  even  in  the  final  days  of  the  Renais- 
sance. Yet  Venus  holds  her  divinity  through  all ;  she  will 
become  majestic  to  you  as  you  gaze  ;  and  there  is  not  a  line 
of  her  chariot  wheels,  of  her  buskins,  or  of  her  throne,  which 
you  may  not  see  was  engraved  by  a  gentleman. 

159.  Again,  Plate  V.,  opposite,  is  a  facsimile  of  another 
engraving  of  the  same  series — the  Sun  in  Leo.  It  is  even 
more  extravagant  in  accessories  than  the  Venus.  You  see  the 
Sun's  epaulettes  before  you  see  the  sun  ;  the  spiral  scrolls  of 
his  chariot,  and  the  black  twisted  rays  of  it,  might,  so  far  as 
types  of  form  only  are  considered,  be  a  design  for  some 


336 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TIN  A, 


modern  court-dress  star,  to  be  made  in  diamonds.  And  yet 
all  this  wild  ornamentation  is,  if  you  will  examine  it,  more 
purely  Greek  in  spirit  than  the  Apollo  Belvidere. 

You  know  I  have  told  you,  again  and  again,  that  the  soul  of 
Greece  is  her  veracity  ;  that  what  to  other  nations  were  fables 
and  symbolisms,  to  her  became  living  facts — living  gods. 
The  fall  of  Greece  was  instant  when  her  gods  again  became 
fables.  The  Apollo  Belvidere  is  the  work  of  a  sculptor  to 
whom  Apollonism  is  merely  an  elegant  idea  on  which  to  ex- 
hibit his  own  skill.  He  does  not  himself  feel  for  an  instant 
that  the  handsome  man  in  the  unintelligible  attitude,*  with 
drapery  hung  over  his  left  arm,  as  it  would  be  hung  to  dry 
over  a  clothes-line,  is  the  Power  of  the  San.  But  the  Floren- 
tine believes  in  Apollo  with  his  whole  mind,  and  is  trying  to 
explain  his  strength  in  every  touch. 

For  instance  ;  I  said  just  now,  "  You  see  the  sun's  epaulettes 
before  the  sun."  Well,  dont  you,  usually,  as  it  rises  ?  Do 
you  not  continually  mistake  a  luminous  cloud  for  it,  or  won- 
der where  it  is,  behind  one  ?  Again,  the  face  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere  is  agitated  by  anxiety,  passion,  and  pride.  Is  the 
sun's  likely  to  be  so,  rising  on  the  evil  and  the  good  ?  This 
Prince  sits  crowned  and  calm  :  look  at  the  quiet  fingers  of 
the  hand  holding  the  sceptre, — at  the  restraint  of  the  reins 
merely  by  a  depression  of  the  wrist. 

160.  You  have  to  look  carefully  for  those  fingers  holding 
the  sceptre,  because  the  hand — which  a  great  anatomist 
would  have  made  so  exclusively  interesting — is  here  confused 
with  the  ornamentation  of  the  arm  of  the  chariot  on  which  it 
rests.  But  look  what  the  ornamentation  is  ; — fruit  and  leaves, 
abundant,  in  the  mouth  of  a  cornucopia.  A  quite  vulgar  and 
meaningless  ornament  in  ordinary  renaissance  work.    Is  it  so 

*I  read  somewhere,  lately,  a  new  and  very  ingenious  theory  about 
the  attitude  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  proving,  to  the  authors  satisfaction, 
that  the  received  notion  about  watching  the  arrow  was  all  a  mistake. 
The  paper  proved,  at  all  events,  one  thing — namely,  the  statement  in 
the  text.  For  an  attitude  which  has  been  always  hitherto  taken  to  mean 
one  thing,  and  is  plausibly  asserted  now  to  mean  another,  must  be  in 
itself  unintelligible. 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


337 


here,  think  you  ?  Are  not  the  leaves  and  fruits  of  earth  in  the 
Sun's  hand  ?  * 

You  thought,  perhaps,  when  I  spoke  just  now  of  the  action 
of  the  right  hand,  that  less  than  a  depression  of  the  wrist 
would  stop  horses  such  as  those.  You  fancy  Botticelli  drew 
them  so,  because  he  had  never  seen  a  horse  ;  or  because,  able 
to  draw  fingers,  he  could  not  draw  hoofs  !  How  fine  it  would 
be  to  have,  instead,  a  prancing  four-in-hand,  in  the  style  of 
Piccadilly  on  the  Derby-day,  or  at  least  horses  like  the  real 
Greek  horses  of  the  Parthenon  ! 

Yes  ;  and  if  they  had  had  real  ground  to  trot  on,  the  Flor- 
entine would  have  shown  you  he  knew  how  they  should  trot. 
But  these  have  to  make  their  way  up  the  hillside  of  other 
lands.  Look  to  the  example  in  your  standard  series,  Hermes 
Eriophoros.  You  will  find  his  motion  among  clouds  repre- 
sented precisely  in  this  labouring,  failing,  half-kneeling  atti- 
tude of  limb.  These  forms,  toiling  up  through  the  rippled 
sands  of  heaven,  are — not  horses  ; — they  are  clouds  themselves, 
like  horses,  but  only  a  little  like.  Look  how  their  hoofs  lose 
themselves,  buried  in  the  ripples  of  cloud  ;  it  makes  one  think 
of  the  quicksands  of  Morecambe  Bay. 

And  their  tails — what  extraordinary  tufts  of  tails,  ending  in 
points  !  Yes  ;  but  do  you  not  see,  nearly  joining  with  them, 
what  is  not  a  horse  tail  at  all ;  but  a  flame  of  fire,  kindled  at 
Apollo's  knee  ?  All  the  rest  of  the  radiance  about  him  shoots 
from  him.  But  this  is  rendered  up  to  him.  As  the  fruits  of 
the  earth  are  in  one  of  his  hands,  its  fire  is  in  the  other.  And 
all  the  warmth,  as  well  as  all  the  light  of  it,  are  his. 

We  had  a  little  natural  philosophy,  gentlemen,  as  well  as 
theology,  in  Florence,  once  upon  a  time. 

161.  Natural  philosophy,  and  also  natural  art,  for  in  this 
the  Greek  reanimate  was  a  nobler  creature  than  the  Greek 
who  had  died.  His  art  had  a  wider  force  and  warmer  glow. 
I  have  told  you  that  the  first  Greeks  were  distinguished  from 
the  barbarians  by  their  simple  humanity  ;  the  second  Greeks 
— these  Florentine  Greeks  reanimate — are  human  more  strong- 

*  It  may  be  asked,  why  not  corn  also  ?  Because  that  belongs  to  Ceres, 
who  is  equally  one  of  the  great  gods. 


338 


ARIADNE  FL OHENTINA . 


ly,  more  deeply,  leaping  from  the  Byzantine  death  at  the  call 
of  Christ,  "  Loose  him,  and  let  him  go."  And  there  is  upon 
them  at  once  the  joy  of  resurrection,  and  the  solemnity  of  the 
grave. 

162.  Of  this  resurrection  of  the  Greek,  and  the  form  of  the 
tomb  he  had  been  buried  in  "  those  four  days,"  I  have  to  give 
you  some  account  in  the  last  lecture.  I  will  only  to-day  show 
you  an  illustration  of  it  which  brings  us  back  to  our  immedi- 
ate question  as  to  the  reasons  why  Northern  art  could  not  ac- 
cept classicism.  When,  in  the  closing  lecture  of  Aratra  Pen- 
telici,  I  compared  Florentine  with  Greek  work,  it  was  to  point 
out  to  you  the  eager  passions  of  the  first  as  opposed  to  the 
formal  legalism  and  proprieties  of  the  other.  Greek  work,  I 
told  you,  while  truthful,  was  also  restrained,  and  never  but 
under  majesty  of  law  ;  while  Gothic  work  was  true,  in  the  per- 
fect law  of  Liberty  or  Franchise.  And  now  I  give  you  in  fac- 
simile (Plate  VI.)  the  two  Aphrodites  thus  compared — the 
Aphrodite  Thalassia  of  the  Tyrrhene  seas,  and  the  Aphrodite 
Urania  of  the  Greek  skies.  You  may  not  at  first  like  the  Tus- 
can best ;  and  wThy  she  is  the  best,  though  both  are  noble, 
again  I  must  defer  explaining  to  next  lecture.  But  now  turn 
back  to  Bewick's  Venus,  and  compare  her  with  the  Tuscan 
Venus  of  the  Stars,  (Plate  II.)  ;  and  then  here,  in  Plate  VI., 
with  the  Tuscan  Venus  of  the  Seas,  and  the  Greek  Venus  of 
the  Sky.  Why  is  the  English  one  vulgar  ?  What  is  it,  in  the 
three  others,  which  makes  them,  if  not  beautiful,  at  least  re- 
fined ? — every  one  of  them  '  designed '  and  drawn,  indisputa- 
bly, by  a  gentleman  ? 

I  never  have  been  so  puzzled  by  any  subject  of  analysis  as, 
far  these  ten  years,  I  have  been  by  this.  Every  answer  I  give, 
however  plausible  it  seems  at  first,  fails  in  some  way,  or  in 
some  cases.  But  there  is  the  point  for  you,  more  definitely 
put,  I  think,  than  in  any  of  my  former  books  ; — at  present, 
for  want  of  time,  I  must  leave  it  to  your  own  thoughts. 

163.  II.  The  second  influence  under  which  engraving  devel- 
oped itself,  I  said,  was  that  of  medicine  and  the  physical 
sciences.  Gentlemen,  the  most  audacious,  and  the  most  val- 
uable, statement  which  I  have  yet  made  to  you  on  the  sub- 


Plate  VI. — Fairness  of  the  Sea  and  Air0 
In  Venice  and  Athens. 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


339 


ject  of  practical  art,  in  these  rooms,  is  that  of  the  evil  result- 
ing from  the  study  of  anatomy.  It  is  a  statement  so  audacious, 
that  not  only  for  some  time  I  dared  not  make  it  to  you,  but 
for  ten  years,  at  least,  I  dared  not  make  it  to  myself.  I  saw, 
indeed,  that  whoever  studied  anatomy  was  in  a  measure  in- 
jured by  it ;  but  I  kept  attributing  the  mischief  to  secondary 
causes.  It  can't  be  this  drink  itself  that  poisons  them,  I  said 
always.  This  drink  is  medicinal  and  strengthening :  I  see 
that  it  kills  them,  but  it  must  be  because  they  drink  it  cold 
when  they  have  been  hot,  or  they  take  something  else  with  it 
that  changes  it  into  poison.  The  drink  itself  must  be  good. 
Well,  gentlemen,  I  found  out  the  drink  itself  to  be  poison  at 
last,  by  the  breaking  of  my  choicest  Venice  glass.  I  could 
not  make  out  what  it  was  that  had  killed  Tintoret,  and  laid 
it  long  to  the  charge  of  chiaroscuro.  It  was  only  after  my 
thorough  study  of  his  Paradise,  in  1870,  that  I  gave  up  this 
idea,  finding  the  chiaroscuro,  which  I  had  thought  exaggerated 
was,  in  all  original  and  undarkened  passages,  beautiful  and 
most  precious.  And  then  at  last  I  got  hold  of  the  true  clue  : 
"  II  disegno  di  Michel  Agnolo."  And  the  moment  I  had  dared 
to  accuse  that,  it  explained  everything  ;  and  I  saw  that  the 
betraying  demons  of  Italian  art,  led  on  by  Michael  Angelo, 
had  been,  not  pleasure,  but  knowledge  ;  not  indolence,  but 
ambition  ;  and  not  love,  but  horror. 

164.  But  when  first  I  ventured  to  tell  you  this,  I  did  not 
know,  myself,  the  fact  of  all  most  conclusive  for  its  con- 
firmation. It  will  take  me  a  little  while  to  put  it  before  you 
in  its  total  force,  and  I  must  first  ask  your  attention  to  a  minor 
point.  In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the  Munich  Gallery  is 
Holbein's  painting  of  St.  Margaret  and  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hun- 
gary,— standard  of  his  early  religious  work.  Here  is  a  photo- 
graph from  the  St.  Elizabeth  ;  and,  in  the  same  frame,  a 
French  lithograph  of  it.  I  consider  it  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant pieces  of  comparison  I  have  arranged  for  you,  showing 
you  at  a  glance  the  difference  between  true  and  false  senti- 
ment. Of  that  difference,  generally,  we  cannot  speak  to-day, 
but  one  special  result  of  it  you  are  to  observe ; — the  omission, 
in  the  French  drawing,  of  Holbein's  daring  representation  of 


340 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


disease,  which  is  one  of  the  vital  honours  of  the  picture. 
Quite  one  of  the  chief  strengths  of  St.  Elizabeth,  in  the  .Roman 
Catholic  view,  was  in  the  courage  of  her  dealing  with  disease, 
chiefly  leprosy.  Now  observe,  I  say  Roman  Catholic  view, 
very  earnestly  just  now  ;  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it  is  so  in  a 
Catholic  view — that  is  to  say,  in  an  eternally  Christian  and 
Divine  view.  And  this  doubt,  very  nearly  now  a  certainty, 
only  came  clearly  into  my  mind  the  other  day  after  many  and 
many  a  year's  meditation  on  it.  I  had  read  with  great  rever- 
ence all  the  beautiful  stories  about  Christ's  appearing  as  a 
leper,  and  the  like  ;  and  had  often  pitied  and  rebuked  myself 
alternately  for  my  intense  dislike  and  horror  of  disease.  I 
am  writing  at  this  moment  within  fifty  yards  of  the  grave  of 
St.  Francis,  and  the  story  of  the  likeness  of  his  feelings  to 
mine  had  a  little  comforted  me,  and  the  tradition  of  his  con- 
quest of  them  again  humiliated  me  ;  and  I  was  thinking  very 
gravely  of  this,  and  of  the  parallel  instance  of  Bishop  Hugo  of 
Lincoln,  always  desiring  to  do  service  to  the  dead,  as  opposed 
to  my  own  unmitigated  and  Louis- Quinze-like  horror  of  fu- 
nerals ; — when  by  chance,  in  the  cathedral  of  Palermo,  a  new 
light  was  thrown  for  me  on  the  whole  matter. 

165.  I  was  drawing  the  tomb  of  Frederick  II.,  which  is 
shut  off  by  a  grating  from  the  body  of  the  church  ;  and  I  had, 
in  general,  quite  an  unusual  degree  of  quiet  and  comfort  at 
my  work.  But  sometimes  it  was  paralyzed  by  the  uncon- 
scious interference  of  one  of  the  men  employed  in  some  minor 
domestic  services  about  the  church.  When  he  had  nothing 
to  do,  he  used  to  come  and  seat  himself  near  my  grating,  not 
to  look  at  my  work,  (the  poor  wretch  had  no  eyes,  to  speak 
of,)  nor  in  any  way  meaning  to  be  troublesome  ;  but  there 
was  his  habitual  seat.  His  nose  had  been  carried  off  by  the 
most  loathsome  of  diseases  ;  there  were  two  vivid  circles  of 
scarlet  round  his  eyes  ;  and  as  he  sat,  he  announced  his  pres- 
ence every  quarter  of  a  minute  (if  otherwise  I  could  have  for- 
gotten it)  by  a  peculiarly  disgusting,  loud,  and  long  expectora- 
tion. On  the  second  or  third  day,  just  as  I  had  forced  myself 
into  some  forgetfulness  of  him,  and  was  hard  at  my  work,  I 
was  startled  from  it  again  by  the  bursting  out  of  a  loud  and 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRA  VING. 


341 


cheerful  conversation  close  to  me  ;  and  on  looking  round,  saw 
a  lively  young  fledgling  of  a  priest,  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  old,  in  the  most  eager  and  spirited  chat  with  the  man 
in  the  chair.  He  talked,  laughed,  and  spat,  himself,  com- 
panionably,  in  the  merriest  way,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour; 
evidently  without  feeling  the  slightest  disgust,  or  being  made 
serious  for  an  instant,  by  the  aspect  of  the  destroyed  creature 
before  him. 

166.  His  own  face  was  simply  that  of  the  ordinary  vulgar 
type  of  thoughtless  young  Italians,  rather  beneath  than  above 
the  usual  standard  ;  and  I  was  certain,  as  I  watched  him,  that 
he  was  not  at  all  my  superior,  but  very  much  my  inferior,  in 
the  coolness  with  which  he  beheld  what  was  to  me  so  dread- 
ful. I  was  positive  that  he  could  look  this  man  in  the  face, 
precisely  because  he  could  not  look,  discerningly,  at  any  beau- 
tiful or  noble  thing  ;  and  that  the  reason  I  dared  not,  was 
because  I  had,  spiritually,  as  much  better  eyes  than  the  priest, 
as  bodily,  than  his  companion. 

Having  got  so  much  of  clear  evidence  given  me  on  the  mat- 
ter, it  was  driven  home  for  me  a  week  later,  as  I  landed  on 
the  quay  of  Naples.  Almost  the  first  thing  that  presented 
itself  to  me  was  the  sign  of  a  travelling  theatrical  company, 
displaying  the  principal  scene  of  the  drama  to  be  enacted  on 
their  classical  stage.  Fresh  from  the  theatre  of  Taormina,  I 
was  curious  to  see  the  subject  of  the  Neapolitan  popular 
drama.  It  was  the  capture,  by  the  police,  of  a  man  and  his 
wife  who  lived  by  boiling  children.  One  section  of  the  police 
was  coming  in,  armed  to  the  teeth,  through  the  passage  ; 
another  section  of  the  police,  armed  to  the  teeth,  and  with 
high  feathers  in  its  caps,  was  coming  up  through  a  trap-door. 
In  fine  dramatic  unconsciousness  to  the  last  moment,  like  the 
clown  in  a  pantomime,  the  child-boiler  was  represented  as  still 
industriously  chopping  up  a  child,  pieces  of  which,  ready  for 
the  pot,  lay  here  and  there  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
picture.  The  child-boiler's  wife,  however,  just  as  she  was 
taking  the  top  off  the  pot  to  put  the  meat  in,  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  foremost  policeman,  and  stopped,  as  much  in 
rage  as  in  consternation. 


342 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


167.  Now  it  is  precisely  the  same  feeling,  or  want  of  feel- 
ing, in  the  lower  Italian  (nor  always  in  the  lower  classes  only) 
which  makes  him  demand  the  kind  of  subject  for  his  secular 
drama  ;  and  the  Crucifixion  and  Pieta  for  his  religious  drama. 
The  only  part  of  Christianity  he  can  enjoy  is  its  horror  ;  and 
even  the  saint  or  saintess  are  not  always  denying  themselves 
severely,  either  by  the  contemplation  of  torture,  or  the  com- 
panionship with  disease. 

Nevertheless,  we  must  be  cautious,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
allow  full  value  to  the  endurance,  by  tender  and  delicate  per- 
sons, of  what  is  really  loathsome  or  distressful  to  them  in  the 
service  of  others  ;  and  I  think  this  picture  of  Holbein's  indi- 
cative of  the  exact  balance  and  rightness  of  his  own  mind  in 
this  matter,  and  therefore  of  his  power  to  conceive  a  true  saint 
also.  He  had  to  represent  St.  Catherine's  chief  effort ; — he 
paints  her  ministering  to  the  sick,  and,  among  them,  is  a 
leper  ;  and  finding  it  thus  his  duty  to  paint  leprosy,  he  cour- 
ageously himself  studies  it  from  the  life.  Not  to  insist  on  its 
horror  ;  but  to  assert  it,  to  the  needful  point  of  fact,  which  he 
does  with  medical  accuracy. 

Now  here  is  just  a  case  in  which  science,  in  a  subordinate 
degree,  is  really  required  for  a  spiritual  and  moral  purpose. 
And  you  find  Holbein  does  not  shrink  from  it  even  in  this  ex- 
treme case  in  which  it  is  most  painful. 

168.  If,  therefore,  you  do  find  him  in  other  cases  not  using 
it,  you  may  be  sure  he  knew  it  to  be  unnecessary. 

Now  it  may  be  disputable  whether  in  order  to  draw  a  living- 
Madonna,  one  need  to  know  how  many  ribs  she  has  ;  but  it 
would  have  seemed  indisputable  that  in  order  to  draw  a  skel- 
eton, one  must  know  how  many  ribs  it  has. 

Holbein  is  par  excellence  the  draughtsman  of  skeletons. 
His  painted  Dance  of  Death  was,  and  his  engraved  Dance  of 
Death  is,  principal  of  such  things,  without  any  comparison  or 
denial.  He  draws  skeleton  after  skeleton,  in  every  possible 
gesture  ;  but  never  so  much  as  counts  their  ribs  !  He  neither 
knows  nor  cares  how  many  ribs  a  skeleton  has.  There  are  al- 
ways enough  to  rattle. 

Monstrous,  you  think,  in  impudence, — Holbein  for  his  care- 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENORA  VING. 


343 


lessness,  and  I  for  defending  him  !  Nay,  I  triumph  in  him  ; 
nothing  has  ever  more  pleased  me  than  this  grand  negli- 
gence. Nobody  wants  to  know  how  many  ribs  a  skeleton 
has,  any  more  than  how  many  bars  a  gridiron  has,  so  long  as 
the  one  can  breathe,  and  the  other  broil  ;  and  still  less,  when 
the  breath  and  the  fire  are  both  out. 

169.  But  is  it  only  of  the  bones,  think  you,  that  Holbein  is 
careless  ?  *  Nay,  incredible  though  it  may  seem  to  you, — but, 
to  me,  explanatory  at  once  of  much  of  his  excellence, — he  did 
not  know  anatomy  at  all !  I  told  you  in  my  Preface,  already 
quoted,  Holbein  studies  the  face  first,  the  body  secondarily  ; 
but  I  had  no  idea,  myself,  how  completely  he  had  refused  the 
venomous  science  of  his  day.  I  showed  you  a  dead  Christ  of 
his,  long  ago.  Can  you  match  it  with  your  academy  draw- 
ings, think  you  ?  And  yet  he  did  not,  and  would  not,  know 
anatomy.  He  would  not  ;  but  Durer  wrould,  and  did  : — went 
hotly  into  it — wrote  books  upon  it,  and  upon  *  proportions  of 
the  human  body/  etc.,  etc.,  and  all  your  modern  recipes  for 
painting  flesh.    How  did  his  studies  prosper  his  art  ? 

People  are  always  talking  of  his  Knight  and  Death,  and  his 
Melancholia,  as  if  those  were  his  principal  works.  They  are 
his  characteristic  ones,  and  show  what  he  might  have  been, 
without  his  anatomy  ;  but  they  were  mere  bye-play  compared 
to  his  Greater  Fortune,  and  Adam  and  Eve.  Look  at  these. 
Here  is  his  full  energy  displayed  ;  here  are  both  male  and 
female  forms  drawn  with  perfect  knowledge  of  their  bones 
and  muscles,  and  modes  of  action  and  digestion, — and  I  hope 
you  are  pleased. 

But  it  is  not  anatomy  only  that  Master  Albert  studies.  He 
has  a  taste  for  optics  also  ;  and  knows  all  about  refraction 
and  reflection.  What  with  his  knowledge  of  the  skull  inside, 
and  the  vitreous  lens  outside,  if  any  man  in  the  world  is  to 
draw  an  eye,  here's  the  man  to  do  it,  surely  !  With  a  hand 
which  can  give  lessons  to  John  Bellini,  and  a  care  which  would 
fain  do  all  so  that  it  can't  be  done  better,  and  acquaintance  with 

*  Or  inventive!  See  Woltmann,  p.  267.  u  The  shin-bone,  or  the 
lower  part  of  the  arm,  exhibit  only  one  bone,  while  the  upper  arm  and 
thigh  are  often  allowed  the  luxury  of  two  " ! 


344 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


every  crack  in  the  cranium,  and  every  humour  in  the  lens,— 
if  we  can't  draw  an  eye,  we  should  just  like  to  know  who  can ! 
thinks  Albert. 

So  having  to  engrave  the  portrait  of  Melancthon,  instead  of 
looking  at  Melancthon,  as  ignorant  Holbein  would  have  been 
obliged  to  do, — wise  Albert  looks  at  the  room  window  ;  and 
finds  it  has  four  cross-bars  in  it,  and  knows  scientifically  that 
the  light  on  Melancthon's  eye  must  be  a  reflection  of  the  win- 
dow with  its  four  bars — and  engraves  it  so,  accordingly  ;  and 
who  shall  dare  to  say,  now,  it  isn't  like  Melancthon  ? 

Unfortunately,  however,  it  isn't,  nor  like  any  other  person 
in  his  senses  ;  but  like  a  madman  looking  at  somebody  who 
disputes  his  hobby.  "While  in  this  drawing  of  Holbein's, 
where  a  dim  grey  shadow  leaves  a  mere  crumb  of  white  paper, 
— accidentally  it  seems,  for  all  the  fine  scientific  reflection, — 
behold,  it  is  an  eye  indeed,  and  of  a  noble  creature. 

170.  What  is  the  reason  ?  do  you  ask  me  ;  and  is  all  the 
common  teaching  about  generalization  of  details  true,  then  ? 

No  ;  not  a  syllable  of  it  is  true.  Holbein  is  right,  not  be- 
cause he  draws  more  generally,  but  more  truly,  than  Durer. 
Durer  draws  what  he  knows  is  there  ;  but  Holbein,  only  what 
he  sees.  And,  as  I  have  told  you  often  before,  the  really 
scientific  artist  is  he  who  not  only  asserts  bravely  what  he 
does  see,  but  confesses  honestly  what  he  does  not  You  must 
not  draw  all  the  hairs  in  an  eyelash  ;  not  because  it  is  sublime 
to  generalize  them,  but  because  it  is  impossible  to  see  them. 
How  many  hairs  there  are,  a  sign  painter  or  an  anatomist  may 
count ;  but  how  few  of  them  you  can  see,  it  is  only  the  utmost 
masters,  Carpaccio,  Tintoret,  Keynolds,  and  Velasquez,  who 
count,  or  know. 

171.  Such  was  the  effect,  then,  of  his  science  upon  Durer's 
ideal  of  beauty,  and  skill  in  portraiture.  What  effect  had  it 
on  the  temper  and  quantity  of  his  work,  as  compared  with 
poor  ignorant  Holbein's  !  You  have  only  three  portraits,  by 
Durer,  of  the  great  men  of  his  time,  and  those  bad  ones ;  while 
he  toils  his  soul  out  to  draw  the  hoofs  of  satyrs,  the  bristles 
of  swine,  and  the  distorted  aspects  of  base  women  and  vicious 
men. 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


345 


What,  on  the  contrary,  has  ignorant  Holbein  done  for  you? 
Shakspeare  and  he  divide  between  them,  by  word  and  look, 
the  Story  of  Enghmd  under  Henry  and  Elizabeth. 

172.  Of  the  effect  of  science  on  the  art  of  Mantegna  and 
Marc  Antonio,  (far  more  deadly  than  on  Durer's,)  I  must  tell 
you  in  a  future  lecture  ; — the  effect  of  it  on  their  minds,  I 
must  partly  refer  to  now,  in  passing  to  the  third  head  of  my 
general  statement — the  influence  of  new  Theology.  For 
Durer  and  Mantegna,  chiefly  because  of  their  science,  forfeited 
their  place,  not  only  as  painters  of  men,  but  as  servants  of 
God.  Neither  of  them  has  left  one  completely  noble  or  com- 
pletely didactic  picture  ;  while  Holbein  and  Botticelli,  in  con- 
summate pieces  of  art,  led  the  way  before  the  eyes  of  all  men, 
to  the  purification  of  their  Church  and  land. 

173.  III.  But  the  need  of  reformation  presented  itself  to 
these  two  men  last  named  on  entirely  different  terms. 

To  Holbein,  when  the  word  of  the  Catholic  Church  proved 
false,  and  its  deeds  bloody  ;  when  he  sawT  it  selling  permission 
of  sin  in  his  native  Augsburg,  and  strewing  the  ashes  of  its 
enemies  on  the  pure  Alpine  waters  of  Constance,  what  refuge 
was  there  for  him  in  more  ancient  religion  ?  Shall  he  wor- 
ship Thor  again,  and  mourn  over  the  death  of  Balder?  He 
reads  Nature  in  her  desolate  and  narrow  truth,  and  she  teaches 
him  the  Triumph  of  Death. 

But,  for  Botticelli,  the  grand  gods  are  old,  are  immortal. 
The  priests  may  have  taught  falsely  the  story  of  the  Virgin  ; 
— did  they  not  also  lie,  in  the  name  of  Artemis,  at  Ephesus  ; 
in  the  name  of  Aphrodite,  at  Cyprus? — but  shall,  therefore, 
Chastit}^  or  Love  be  dead,  or  the  full  moon  paler  over  Arno  ? 
Saints  of  Heaven  and  Gods  of  Earth  ! — shall  these  perish  be- 
cause vain  men  speak  evil  of  them  ?  Let  us  speak  good  for 
ever,  and  grave,  as  on  the  rock,  for  ages  to  come,  the  glory  of 
Beauty,  and  the  triumph  of  Faith. 

174.  Holbein  had  bitterer  task. 

Of  old,  the  one  duty  of  the  painter  had  been  to  exhibit  the 
virtues  of  this  life,  and  hopes  of  the  life  to  come.  Holbein 
had  to  show  the  vices  of  this  life,  and  to  obscure  the  hope  ol 
the  future.    "  Yes,  we  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 


346 


ARIADNE  FLORENTWA. 


of  death,  and  fear  all  evil,  for  Thou  art  not  with  us,  and  Thy 
rod  and  Thy  staff  comfort  us  not."  He  does  not  choose  this 
task.  It  is  thrust  upon  him, — just  as  fatally  as  the  burial  of 
the  dead  is  in  a  plague-struck  city.  These  are  the  things  he 
sees,  and  must  speak.  He  will  not  become  a  better  artist 
thereby  ;  no  drawing  of  supreme  beauty,  or  beautiful  things, 
will  be  possible  to  him.  Yet  we  cannot  say  he  ought  to  have 
done  anything  else,  nor  can  we  praise  him  specially  in-  doing 
this.    It  is  his  fate  ;  the  fate  of  air  the  bravest  in  that  day. 

175.  For  instance,  there  is  no  scene  about  which  a  shallow 
and  feeble  painter  would  have  been  more  sure  to  adopt  the 
commonplaces  of  the  creed  of  his  time  than  the  death  of  a 
child, — chiefly,  and  most  of  all,  the  death  of  a  country  child, 
— a  little  thing  fresh  from  the  cottage  and  the  field.  Surely 
for  such  an  one,  angels  will  wait  by  its  sick  bed,  and  rejoice  as 
they  bear  its  soul  away  ;  and  over  its  shroud  flowers  will  be 
strewn,  and  the  birds  will  sing  by  its  grave.  So  your  common 
sentimentalist  would  think,  and  paint.  Holbein  sees  the  facts, 
as  they  verily  are,  up  to  the  point  when  vision  ceases.  He 
speaks,  then  no  more. 

The  country  labourer's  cottage — the  rain  coming  through 
its  roof,  the  clay  crumbling  from  its  partitions,  the  fire  lighted 
with  a  few  chips  and  sticks  on  a  raised  piece  of  the  mud  floor, 
— such  dais  as  can  be  contrived,  for  use,  not  for  honour.  The 
damp  wood  sputters  ;  the  smoke,  stopped  by  the  roof,  though 
the  rain  is  not,  coils  round  again,  and  down.  But  the  mother 
can  warm  the  child's  supper  of  bread  and  milk  so — holding 
the  pan  by  the  long  handle  ;  and  on  mud  floor  though  it  be, 
they  are  happy, — she,  and  her  child,  and  its  brother, — if  only 
they  could  be  left  so.  They  shall  not  be  left  so  :  the  young 
thing  must  leave  them — will  never  need  milk  warmed  for  it  any 
more.  It  would  fain  stay, — sees  no  angels — feels  only  an  icy 
grip  on  its  hand,  and  that  it  cannot  stay.  Those  who  loved 
it  shriek  and  tear  their  hair  in  vain,  amazed  in  grief.  '  Oh, 
little  one,  you  must  lie  out  in  the  fields  then,  not  even  undei 
this  poor  torn  roof  of  thy  mother's  to-night  ?  " 

176.  Again  :  there  was  not  in  the  old  creed  any  subject 
more  definitely  and  constantly  insisted  on  than  the  death  of  a 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRA  VING. 


347 


miser.  He  had  been  happy,  the  old  preachers  thought,  till 
then  :  but  his  hour  has  come  ;  and  the  black  covetousness  of 
hell  is  awake  and  watching  ;  the  sharp,  harpy  claws  will  clutch 
his  soul  out  of  his  mouth,  and  scatter  his  treasure  for  others 
So  the  commonplace  preacher  and  painter  taught.  Not  so 
Holbein.  The  devil  want  to  snatch  his  soul,  indeed !  Nay, 
he  never  had  a  soul,  but  of  the  devil's  giving.  His  misery  to 
begin  on  his  deathbed !  Nay,  he  had  never  an  unmiserable 
hour  of  life.  The  fiend  is  with  him  now, — a  paltry,  abortive 
fiend,  with  no  breath  even  to  blow  hot  with.  He  supplies  the 
hell-blast  with  a  machine.  It  is  winter,  and  the  rich  man  has 
his  furred  cloak  and  cap,  thick  and  heavy  ;  the  beggar,  bare- 
headed to  beseech  him,  skin  and  rags  hanging  about  him  to- 
gether, touches  his  shoulder,  but  all  in  vain  ;  there  is  other 
business  in  hand.  More  haggard  than  the  beggar  himself, 
wasted  and  palsied,  the  rich  man  counts  with  his  fingers  the 
gain  of  the  years  to  come. 

But  of  those  years,  infinite,  that  are  to  be,  Holbein  says 
nothing.  '  I  know  not ;  I  see  not.  This  only  I  see,  on  this 
very  winter's  day,  the  low  pale  stumbling-block  at  your 
feet,  the  altogether  by  you  unseen  and  forgotten  Death. 
You  shall  not  pass  him  by  on  the  other  side  ;  here  is  a  fasting 
figure  in  skin  and  bone,  at  last,  that  will  stop  you  ;  and  for 
all  the  hidden  treasures  of  earth,  here  is  your  spade  :  dig  now, 
and  find  them/ 

177.  I  have  said  that  Holbein  was  condemned  to  teach 
these  things.  He  was  not  happy  in  teaching  them,  nor 
thanked  for  teaching  them.  Nor  was  Botticelli  for  his  lovelier 
teaching.  But  they  both  could  do  no  otherwise.  They  lived 
in  truth  and  steadfastness  ;  and  with  both,  in  their  marvellous 
design,  veracity  is  the  beginning  of  invention,  and  love  its  end. 

I  have  but  time  to  show  you,  in  conclusion,  how  this  affec- 
tionate self-forgetfulness  protects  Holbein  from  the  chief 
calamity  of  the  German  temper,  vanity,  which  is  at  the  root 
of  all  Durer's  weakness.  Here  is  a  photograph  of  Holbein's 
portrait  of  Erasmus,  and  a  fine  proof  of  Durer's.  In  Hoi- 
bein's,  the  face  leads  everything  ;  and  the  most  lovely  quali- 
ties of  the  face  lead  in  that.    The  cloak  and  cap  are  perfectly 


348 


ARIADNE  FLOBENTINA. 


painted,  just  because  you  look  at  them  neither  more  nor  lesg 
than  you  would  have  looked  at  the  cloak  in  reality.  You 
don't  say,  '  How  brilliantly  they  are  touched/  as  you  would 
with  Rembrandt  ;  nor  '  How  gracefully  they  are  neglected, 
as  you  would  with  Gainsborough  ;  nor  '  How  exquisitely  they 
are  shaded,'  as  you  would  with  Leonardo  ;  nor  'How  grandly 
they  are  composed,'  as  you  would  with  Titian.  You  say  only, 
1  Erasmus  is  surely  there  ;  and  what  a  pleasant  sight ! '-  You 
don't  think  of  Holbein  at  all.  He  has  not  even  put  in  the 
minutest  letter  H,  that  I  can  see,  to  remind  you  of  him.  Drops 
his  H's,  I  regret  to  say,  often  enough.  £  My  hand  should  be 
enough  for  you  ;  what  matters  my  name  ? '  But  now,  look 
at  Durer's.  The  very  first  thing  you  see,  and  at  any  distance, 
is  this  great  square  tablet  with 

"  The  image  of  Erasmus,  drawn  from  the  life  by  Albert 
Durer,  1526," 

and  a  great  straddling  a.d.  besides.  Then  you  see  a  cloak, 
and  a  table,  and  a  pot,  with  flowers  in  it,  and  a  heap  of  books 
with  all  their  leaves  and  all  their  clasps,  and  all  the  little  bits 
of  leather  gummed  in  to  mark  the  places  ;  and  last  of  all  you 
see  Erasmus's  face  ;  and  when  you  do  see  it,  the  most  of  it  is 
wrinkles. 

All  egotism  and  insanity,  this,  gentlemen.  Hard  words  to 
use  ;  but  not  too  hard  to  define  the  faults  which  rendered  so 
much  of  Durer's  great  genius  abortive,  and  to  this  day  para- 
lyze, among  the  details  of  a  lifeless  and  ambitious  precision, 
the  student,  no  less  than  the  artist,  of  German  blood.  For 
too  many  an  Erasmus,  too  many  a  Durer,  among  them,  the 
world  is  all  cloak  and  clasp,  instead  of  face  or  book  ;  and  the 
first  object  of  their  lives  is  to  engrave  their  initials. 

For  us,  in  England,  not  even  so  much  is  at  present  to  be 
hoped  ;  and  yet,  singularly  enough,  it  is  more  our  modest}', 
unwisely  submissive,  than  our  vanity,  which  has  destroyed 
our  English  school  of  engraving. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  pretty  line  engravings  which  used  to 
represent,  characteristically,  our  English  skill,  one  saw  always 
two  inscriptions.  At  the  left-hand  corner,  "  Drawn  by — so- 
and-so  ; "  at  the  right-hand  corner,  "  Engraved  by — so-and- 


GERMAN  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


349 


bo."  Only  under  the  worst  and  cheapest  plates — for  the  Sta- 
tioner's Almanack,  or  the  like, — one  saw  sometimes,  "  Drawn 
and  engraved  by  so-and-so,"  which  meant  nothing  more  than 
that  the  publisher  would  not  go  to  the  expense  of  an  artist, 
and  that  the  engraver  haggled  through  as  he  could.  (One 
fortunate  exception,  gentlemen,  you  have  in  the  old  drawings 
for  your  Oxford  Almanack,  though  the  publishers,  I  have  no 
doubt,  even  in  that  case,  employed  the  cheapest  artist  they 
could  find.*)  But  in  general,  no  engraver  thought  himself 
able  to  draw ;  and  no  artist  thought  it  his  business  to  en- 
grave. 

But  the  fact  that  this  and  the  following  lecture  are  on  the 
subject  of  design  in  engraving,  implies  of  course  that  in  the 
work  we  have  to  examine,  it  was  often  the  engraver  himself 
who  designed,  and  as  often  the  artist  who  engraved. 

And  you  will  observe  that  the  only  engravings  which  bear 
imperishable  value  are,  indeed,  in  this  kind.  It  is  true  that, 
in  woodcutting,  both  Durer  and  Holbein,  as  in  our  own  days 
Leech  and  Tenniel,  have  workmen  under  them  who  can  do  all 
they  want.  But  in  metal  cutting  it  is  not  so.  For,  as  I  have 
told  you,  in  metal  cutting,  ultimate  perfection  of  Line  has  to 
be  reached ;  and  it  can  be  reached  by  none  but  a  master's 
hand  ;  nor  by  his,  unless  in  the  very  moment  and  act  of  de- 
signing. Never,  unless  under  the  vivid  first  force  of  imagina- 
tion and  intellect,  can  the  Line  have  its  full  value.  And  for 
this  high  reason,  gentlemen,  that  paradox  which  perhaps 
seemed  to  you  so  daring,  is  nevertheless  deeply  and  finally 
true,  that  while  a  woodcut  may  be  laboriously  finished,  a 
grand  engraving  on  metal  must  be  comparatively  incomplete, 
For  it  must  be  done,  throughout,  with  the  full  fire  of  temper 
in  it,  visibly  governing  its  lines,  as  the  wind  does  the  fibres 
of  cloud. 

*  The  drawings  were  made  by  Turner,  and  are  now  among  the  chief 
treasures  of  the  Oxford  Galleries.  I  ought  to  add  some  notice  of  Ho- 
garth to  this  lecture  in  the  Appendix  ;  but  fear  I  shall  have  no  time  ; 
besides,  though  I  have  profound  respect  for  Hogarth,  as,  in  literature, 
I  have  for  Fielding,  I  can't  criticise  them,  because  I  know  nothing  of 
their  subjects. 


350 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


The  value  hitherto  attached  to  Rembrandt's  etchings,  and 
others  imitating  them,  depends  on  a  true  instinct  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  for  this  virtue  of  line.  But  etching  is  an  indolent 
and  blundering  method  at  the  best ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that 
you  will  one  day  be  grateful  for  the  severe  disciplines  of 
drawing  required  in  these  schools,  in  that  they  will  have  en- 
abled you  to  know  wrhat  a  line  may  be,  driven  by  a  master's 
chisel  on  silver  or  marble,  following,  and  fostering  as  it  fol- 
lows, the  instantaneous  strength  of  his  determined  thought. 


LECTURE  VI. 

DESIGN  IN  THE  FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 

1.  In  the  first  of  these  lectures,  I  stated  to  you  their  sub- 
ject, as  the  investigation  of  the  engraved  work  of  a  group  of 
men,  to  whom  engraving,  as  a  means  of  popular  address,  was 
above  all  precious,  because  their  art  was  distinctively  didactic. 

Some  of  my  hearers,  must  be  aware  that,  of  late  years,  the 
assertion  that  art  should  be  didactic  has  been  clamorously  and 
violently  derided  by  the  countless  crowd  o*f  artists  who  have 
nothing  to  represent,  and  of  writers  who  have  nothing  to  say  ; 
and  that  the  contrary  assertion — that  art  consists  only  in 
pretty  colours  and  fine  words, — is  accepted,  readily  enough, 
by  a  public  which  rarely  pauses  to  look  at  a  picture  with  at- 
tention, or  read  a  sentence  with  understanding. 

2.  Gentlemen,  believe  me,  there  never  was  any  great  ad- 
vancing art  yet,  nor  can  be,  without  didactic  purpose.  The 
leaders  of  the  strong  schools  are,  and  must  be  always,  either 
teachers  of  theology,  or  preachers  of  the  moral  law.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  it  was  as  teachers  of  theology  on  the  walls  of 
the  Vatican  that  the  masters  with  whose  names  you  are  most 
familiar  obtained  their  perpetual  fame.  But  however  great 
their  fame,  you  have  not  practically,  I  imagine,  ever  been  ma- 
terially assisted  in  your  preparation  for  the  schools  either  of 
philosophy  or  divinity  by  Raphael's  'School  of  Athens,'  by 
Raphael's  'Theology/ — or  by  Michael  Angelo's  'Judgment/ 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  351 


My  task,  to-day,  is  to  set  before  you  some  part  of  the  design 
of  the  first  Master  of  the  works  in  the  Sistine  Chapel ;  and  1 
believe  that,  from  his  teaching,  you  will,  even  in  the  hour 
which  I  ask  you  now  to  give,  learn  what  may  be  of  true  use 
to  you  in  all  your  future  labour,  whether  in  Oxford  or  else- 
where. 

3.  You  have  doubtless,  in  the  course  of  these  lectures,  been 
occasionally  surprised  by  my  speaking  of  Holbein  and  Sandro 
Botticelli,  as  Reformers,  in  the  same  tone  of  respect,  and  with 
the  same  implied  assertion  of  their  intellectual  power  and 
agency,  with  which  it  is  usual  to  speak  of  Luther  and  Savon- 
arola. You  have  been  accustomed,  indeed,  to  hear  painting 
and  sculpture  spoken  of  as  supporting  or  enforcing  Church 
doctrine  ;  but  never  as  reforming  or  chastising  it.  Whether 
Protestant  or  Roman  Catholic,  you  have  admitted  what  in  the 
one  case  you  held  to  be  the  abuse  of  painting,  in  the  further- 
ance of  idolatry — in  the  other,  its  amiable  and  exalting  min- 
istry to  the  feebleness  of  faith.  But  neither  have  recognized, 
— the  Protestant  his  ally, — or  the  Catholic  his  enemy,  in  the 
far  more  earnest  work  of  the  great  painters  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  The  Protestant  was,  in  most  cases,  too  vulgar  to 
understand  the  aid  offered  to  him  by  painting  ;  and  in  all 
cases  too  terrified  to  believe  in  it.  He  drove  the  gift-bringing 
Greek  with  imprecations  from  his  sectarian  fortress,  or  re- 
ceived him  within  it  only  on  the  condition  that  he  should 
speak  no  word  of  religion  there. 

4.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Catholic,  in  most  cases  too  in- 
dolent to  read,  and,  in  all,  too  proud  to  dread,  the  rebuke  of 
the  reforming  painters,  confused  them  with  the  crowd  of 
his  old  flatterers,  and  little  noticed  their  altered  language,  or 
their  graver  brow.  In  a  little  while,  finding  they  had  ceased 
to  be  amusing,  he  effaced  their  works,  not  as  dangerous,  but 
as  dull ;  and  recognized  only  thenceforward,  as  art,  the  innoc- 
uous bombast  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  fluent  efflorescence  of 
Bernini.  But  when  you  become  more  intimately  and  impar- 
tially acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  Reformation,  you 
will  find  that,  as  surely  and  earnestly  as  Mem  ling  and  Giotto 
strove  in  the  north  and  south  to  set  forth  and  exalt  the  Cath- 


352 


ARIADNE  FLORENTIJXA. 


olic  faith,  so  surely  and  earnestly  did  Holbein  and  Botticelli 
strive,  in  the  north,  to  chastise,  and,  in  the  south,  to  revive  it. 
In  what  manner,  I  will  try  to-day  briefly  to  show  you. 

5.  I  name  these  two  men  as  the  reforming  leaders ;  there 
were  many,  rank  and  file,  who  worked  in  alliance  with  Hol- 
bein ;  with  Botticelli,  two  great  ones,  Lippi  and  Perugino. 
But  both  of  these  had  so  much  pleasure  in  their  own  pictorial 
faculty,  that  they  strove  to  keep  quiet,  and  out  of  harm's-  way, 
— involuntarily  manifesting  themselves  sometimes,  however ; 
and  not  in  the  wisest  manner.  Lippi's  running  away  with  a 
novice  was  not  likely  to  be  understood  as  a  step  in  Church 
reformation  correspondent  to  Luther's  marriage.'*  Nor  have 
Protestant  divines,  even  to  this  day,  recognized  the  real  mean- 
ing of  the  reports  of  Perugino's  'infidelity.'  Botticelli,  the 
pupil  of  the  one,  and  the  companion  of  the  other,  held  the 
truths  they  taught  him  through  sorrow  as  well  as  joy  ;  and 
he  is  the  greatest  of  the  reformers,  because  he  preached  with- 
out blame  ;  though  the  least  known,  because  he  died  without 
victory. 

I  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  lay  before  you  some  better  biogra- 
phy of  him  than  the  traditions  of  Vasari,  of  which  I  gave  a  short 
abstract  some  time  back  in  Fors  Glavigera ;  but  as  yet  I  have 
only  added  internal  evidence  to  the  popular  story,  the  more 
important  points  of  which  I  must  review  briefly.  It  will  not 
waste  your  time  if  I  read, — instead  of  merely  giving  you  refer- 
ence to, — the  passages  on  which  I  must  comment. 

6.  "His  father,  Mariano  Filipepi,  a  Florentine  citizen, 
brought  him  up  with  care,  and  caused  him  to  be  instructed 
in  all  such  things  as  are  usually  taught  to  children  before 
they  choose  a  calling.  But  although  the  boy  readily  acquired 
whatever  he  wished  to  learn,  yet  was  he  constantly  discon- 

*  The  world  was  not  then  ready  for  Le  Pore  Hyaeinthe  ; — "but  the  real 
gist  of  the  matter  is  that  Lippi  did,  openly  and  bravely,  what  the  high- 
est prelates  in  the  Church  did  basely  and  in  secret  ;  also  he  loved, 
where  they  only  lusted  ;  and  he  has  been  proclaimed  therefore  by  them 
— and  too  foolishly  believed  by  us — to  have  been  a  shameful  person. 
Of  his  true  life,  and  the  colours  given  to  it,  we  will  try  to  learn  some- 
thing tenable,  before  we  end  our  work  in  Florence. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  353 


tented  ;  neither  would  he  take  any  pleasure  in  reading,  writ- 
ing, or  accounts,  insomuch  tha.t  the  father,  disturbed  by  the 
eccentric  habits  of  his  son,  turned  him  over  in  despair  to  a 
gossip  of  his,  called  Botticello,  who  was  a  goldsmith,  and  con- 
sidered a  very  competent  master  of  his  art,  to  the  intent  that 
the  boy  might  learn  the  same." 

"  He  took  no  pleasure  in  reading,  writing,  nor  accounts  "  ! 
You  will  find  the  same  thing  recorded  of  Cimabue  ;  but  it 
is  more  curious  when  stated  of  a  man  whom  I  cite  to  you  as 
typically  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar.  But  remember,  in  those 
days,  though  there  were  not  so  many  entirely  correct  books 
issued  by  the  Beligious  Tract  Society  for  boys  to  read,  there 
were  a  great  many  more  pretty  things  in  the  world  for  boys 
to  see.  The  Val  d'Arno  was  Pater-noster  Bow  to  purpose  ; 
their  Father's  Bow,  with  books  of  His  writing  on  the  moun- 
tain shelves.  And  the  lad  takes  to  looking  at  things,  and 
thinking  about  them,  instead  of  reading  about  them, — which 
I  commend  to  you,  also,  as  much  the  more  scholarly  practice 
of  the  two.  To  the  end,  though  he  knows  all  about  the  ce- 
lestial hierarchies,  he  is  not  strong  in  his  letters,  nor  in  his 
dialect.  I  asked  Mr.  Tyrrwhitt  to  help  me  through  with  a 
bit  of  his  Italian  the  other  day.  Mr.  Tyrrwhitt  could  only  help 
me  by  suggesting  that  it  was  "  Botticelli  for  so-and-so."  And 
one  of  the  minor  reasons  which  induce  me  so  boldly  to  attrib- 
ute these  sibyls  to  him,  instead  of  Bandini,  is  that  the  letter- 
ing is  so  ill  done.  The  engraver  would  assuredly  have  had 
his  lettering  all  right, — or  at  least  neat.  Botticelli  blunders 
through  it,  scratches  impatiently  out  when  he  goes  wrong  ; 
and  as  I  told  you  there's  no  repentance  in  the  engravers  trade 
leaves  all  the  blunders  visible. 

7.  I  may  add  one  fact  bearing  on  this  question  lately  com- 
municated to  me.*  In  the  autumn  of  1872  I  possessed  my- 
self of  an  Italian  book  of  pen  drawings,  some,  I  have  no 
doubt,  by  Mantegna  in  his  youth,  others  by  Sandro  himself. 
In  examining  these,  I  was  continually  struck  by  the  com- 
paratively feeble  and  blundering  way  in  which  the  titles  were 

*  I  insert  supplementary  notes,  when  of  importance,  in  the  text  of 
the  lecture,  for  the  convenience  of  the  general  reader. 


354 


AUIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


written,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  handling  was  really  superb ; 
and  still  more  surprised  when,  on  the  sleeves  and  hem  of  the 
robe  of  one  of  the  principal  figures  of  women,  ("  Helena 
rapita  da  Paris,")  I  found  what  seemed  to  be  meant  for 
inscriptions,  intricately  embroidered  ;  which  nevertheless, 
though  beautifully  drawn,  I  could  not  read.  In  copying  Bot- 
ticelli's Zipporah  this  spring,  I  found  the  border  of  her  robe 
wrought  with  characters  of  the  same  kind,  which  a  young 
painter,  working  with  me,  who  already  knows  the  minor  se- 
crets of  Italian  art  better  than  I,*  assures  me  are  letters, — and 
letters  of  a  language  hitherto  undeciphered. 

8.  "There  was  at  that  time  a  close  connexion  and  almost 
constant  intercourse  between  the  goldsmiths  and  the  painters, 
wherefore  Sandro,  who  possessed  considerable  ingenuity,  and 
was  strongly  disposed  to  the  arts  of  design,  became  en- 
amoured of  painting,  and  resolved  to  devote  himself  entirely 
to  that  vocation.  He  acknowledged  his  purpose  at  once  to 
his  father  ;  and  the  latter,  who  knew  the  force  of  his  inclina- 
tion, took  him  accordingly  to  the  Carmelite  monk,  Era  Filip- 
po,  who  was  a  most  excellent  painter  of  that  time,  with  whom 
he  placed  him  to  study  the  art,  as  Sandro  himself  had  desired. 
Devoting  himself  thereupon  entirely  to  the  vocation  he  had 
chosen,  Sandro  so  closely  followed  the  directions,  and  imitated 
the  manner,  of  his  master,  that  Fra  Filippo  conceived  a  great 
love  for  him,  and  instructed  him  so  effectually,  that  Sandro 
rapidly  attained  to  such  a  degree  in  art  as  none  would  have 
predicted  for  him." 

I  have  before  pointed  out  to  you  the  importance  of  training 
by  the  goldsmith.  Sandro  got  more  good  of  it,  however 
than  any  of  the  other  painters  so  educated, — being  enabled 
by  it  to  use  gold  for  light  to  colour,  in  a  glowing  harmony 
never  reached  with  equal  perfection,  and  rarely  attempted,  in 
the  later  schools.  To  the  last,  his  paintings  are  partly  treated 
as  work  in  niello  ;  and  he  names  himself,  in  perpetual  grati- 
tude, from  this  first  artizan  master.  Nevertheless,  the  fort- 
unate fellow  finds,  at  the  right  moment,  another,  even  more 
to  his  mind,  and  is  obedient  to  him  through  his  youth,  as  to 
*  Mr.  Charles  F.  Murray. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  355 


the  other  through  his  childhood.  And  this  master  loves  him  \ 
and  instructs  him  '  so  effectually,' — in  grinding  colors,  do  you 
suppose,  only  ;  or  in  laying  of  lines  only  ;  or  in  anything 
more  than  these  ? 

9.  I  will  tell  you  what  Lippi  must  have  taught  any  boy 
whom  he  loved.  First,  humility,  and  to  live  in  joy  and  peace, 
injuring  no  man — if  such  innocence  might  be.  Nothing  is  so 
manifest  in  every  face  by  him,  as  its  gentleness  and  rest. 
Secondly,  to  finish  his  work  perfectly,  and  in  such  temper  that 
the  angels  might  say  of  it — not  he  himself — '  Iste  perfecit 
opus.'  Do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  in  the  Eagle's 
Nest,  that  true  humility  was  in  hoping  that  angels  might 
sometimes  admire  our  work  ;  not  in  hoping  that  we  should 
ever  be  able  to  admire  theirs?  Thirdly, — a  little  thing  it 
seems,  but  was  a  great  one, — love  of  flowers.  No  one  draws 
such  lilies  or  such  daisies  as  Lippi.  Botticelli  beat  him  after- 
wards in  roses,  but  never  in  lilies.  Fourthly,  due  honour  for 
classical  tradition,  Lippi  is  the  only  religious  painter  who 
dresses  John  Baptist  in  the  camel-skin,  as  the  Greeks  dressed 
Heracles  in  the  lion's, — over  the  head.  Lastly,  and  chiefly  of 
all, — Le  Pere  Hyacinthe  taught  his  pupil  certain  views  about 
the  doctrine  of  the  Church,  which  the  boy  thought  of  more 
deeply  than  his  tutor,  and  that  by  a  great  deal  ;  and  Master 
Sandro  presently  got  himself  into  such  question  for  painting 
heresy,  that  if  he  had  been  as  hot-headed  as  he  was  true- 
hearted,  he  would  soon  have  come  to  bad  end  by  the  tar- 
barrel.  But  he  is  so  sweet  and  so  modest,  that  nobody  is 
frightened  ;  so  clever,  that  everybody  is  pleased  :  and  at  last, 
actually  the  Pope  sends  for  him  to  paint  his  own  private 
chapel, — where  the  first  thing  my  young  gentleman  does, 
mind  you,  is  to  paint  the  devil,  in  a  monk's  dress  tempting 
Christ !  The  sauciest  thing,  out  and  out,  done  in  the  history 
of  the  Reformation,  it  seems  to  me  ;  yet  so  wisely  dpne,  and 
with  such  true  respect  otherwise  shown  for  what  was  sacred 
in  the  Church,  that  the  Pope  didn't  mind  :  and  all  went  on  as 
merrily  as  marriage  bells. 

10.  I  have  anticipated,  however,  in  telling  you  this,  the 
proper  course  of  his  biography,  to  which  I  now  return. 


356 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


"  While  still  a  youth  he  painted  the  figure  of  Fortitude, 
among  those  pictures  of  the  Virtues  which  Antonio  and  Pietro 
Pollaiuolo  were  executing  in  the  Mercatanzia,  or  Tribunal  of 
Commerce,  in  Florence.  In  Santo  Spirito,  a  church  of  the 
same  city,  he  painted  a  picture  for  the  chapel  of  the  Bardi 
family :  this  work  he  executed  with  great  diligence,  and 
finished  it  very  successfully,  depicting  certain  olive  and  palm 
trees  therein  with  extraordinary  care." 

It  is  by  a  beautiful  chance  that  the  first  work  of  his,  speci- 
fied by  his  Italian  biographer,  should  be  the  Fortitude.* 
Note  also  what  is  said  of  his  tree  drawing. 

"Having,  in  consequence  of  this  work,  obtained  much 
credit  and  reputation,  Sandro  wTas  appointed  by  the  Guild  of 
Porta  Santa  Maria  to  paint  a  picture  in  San  Marco,  the  sub- 
ject of  which  is  the  Coronation  of  Our  Lady,  who  is  surround- 
ed by  a  choir  of  angels — the  whole  extremely  well  designed, 
and  finished  by  the  artist  with  infinite  care.  He  executed 
various  works  in  the  Medici  Palace  for  the  elder  Lorenzo, 
more  particularly  a  figure  of  Pallas  on  a  shield  wreathed  with 
vine  branches,  whence  flames  are  proceeding  :  this  he  painted 
of  the  size  of  life.  A  San  Sebastiano  was  also  among  the 
most  remarkable  of  the  works  executed  for  Lorenzo.  In  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  in  Florence,  is  a  Pieta,  with 
small  figures,  by  this  master  :  this  is  a  very  beautiful  work. 
For  different  houses  in  various  parts  of  the  city  Sandro  paint- 
ed many  pictures  of  a  round  form,  with  numerous  figures  of 
women  un draped.  Of  these  there  are  still  two  examples  at 
Castello,  a  villa  of  the  Duke  Cosimo, — one  representing  the 
birth  of  Venus,  who  is  borne  to  earth  by  the  Loves  and 
Zephyrs  ;  the  second  also  presenting  the  figure  of  Venus 
crowned  with  flowers  by  the  Graces  :  she  is  here  intended  to 
denote  the  Spring,  and  the  allegory  is  expressed  by  the  painter 
with  extraordinary  grace." 

Our  young  Reformer  enters,  it  seems,  on  a  very  miscellane- 
ous course  of  study  ;  the  Coronation  of  Our  Lady  ;  St.  Sebas- 
tian ;  Pallas  in  vine  leaves  ;  and  Venus, — without  fig-leaves. 

*  Some  notice  of  this  picture  is  given  at  the  beginning  of  my  third 
Morning  in  Florence,  1  Before  the  Soldan.' 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  357 


Not  wholly  Calvinistic,  Fra  Filippo's  teaching  seems  to  have 
been  !  All  the  better  for  the  boy — being  such  a  boy  as  he 
was  :  but  I  cannot  in  this  lecture  enter  farther  into  my  reasons 
for  saying  so. 

'  11.  Vasari,  however,  has  shot  far  ahead  in  telling  us  of  this 
picture  of  the  Spring,  which  is  one  of  Botticelli's  completest 
works.  Long  before  he  was  able  to  paint  Greek  nymphs,  he 
had  done  his  best  in  idealism  of  greater  spirits  ;  and,  while 
yet  quite  a  youth,  painted,  at  Castello,  the  Assumption  of  Our 
Lady,  with  "the  patriarchs,  the  prophets,  the  apostles,  the 
evangelists,  the  martyrs,  the  confessors,  the  doctors,  the  vir- 
gins, and  the  hierarchies  !  " 

Imagine  this  subject  proposed  to  a  young,  (or  even  old) 
British  artist,  for  his  next  appeal  to  public  sensation  at  the 
Academy  !  But  do  you  suppose  that  the  young  British  artist 
is  wiser  and  more  civilized  than  Lippi's  scholar,  because  his 
only  idea  of  a  patriarch  is  of  a  man  with  a  long  beard  ;  of  a 
doctor,  the  M.D.  with  the  brass  plate  over  the  way  ;  and  of  a 
virgin,  Miss  of  the   theatre  ? 

Not  that  even  Sandro  was  able,  according  to  Vasarfs  re- 
port, to  conduct  the  entire  design  himself.  The  proposer  of 
the  subject  assisted  him  ;  and  they  made  some  modifications 
in  the  theology,  which  brought  them  both  into  trouble — so 
early  did  Sandro's  innovating  work  begin,  into  which  sub- 
jects our  gossiping  friend  waives  unnecessary  inquiry,  as 
follows. 

"  But  although  this  picture  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  and 
ought  to  have  put  envy  to  shame,  yet  there  were  found  certain 
malevolent  and  censorious  persons  who,  not  being  able  to  affix 
any  other  blame  to  the  work,  declared  that  Matteo  and  Sandro 
had  erred  gravely  in  that  matter,  and  had  fallen  into  grievous 
heresy. 

"Now,  whether  this  be  true  or  not,  let  none  expect  the 
judgment  of  that  question  from  me  :  it  shall  suffice  me  to 
note  that  the  figures  executed  by  Sandro  in  that  work  are  en- 
tirely worthy  of  praise  ;  and  that  the  pains  he  took  in  depict- 
ing those  circles  of  the  heavens  must  have  been  very  great,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  angels  mingled  with  the  other  figures,  or 


358  ARIADNE  FL  OR  EN  T IN  A. 

of  the  various  foreshortenings,  all  which  are  designed  in  a 
very  good  manner. 

"  About  this  time  Sandro  received  a  commission  to  paint  a 
small  picture  with  figures  three  parts  of  a  braccio  high, — the 
subject  an  Adoration  of  the  Magi. 

"It  is  indeed  a  most  admirable  work  :  the  composition,  the 
design,  and  the  colouring  are  so  beautiful  that  every  artist 
who  examines  it  is  astonished  ;  and,  at  the  time,  it  obtained 
so  great  a  name  in  Florence,  and  other  places,  for  the  master, 
that  Pope  Sixtus  IV.  having  erected  the  chapel  built  by  him  in 
his  palace  at  Rome,  and  desiring  to  have  it  adorned  with  paint- 
ings, commanded  that  Sandro  Botticelli  should  be  appointed 
Superintendent  of  the  work." 

12.  Vasari's  words,  "  about  this  time,"  are  evidently  wrong. 
It  must  have  been  many  and  many  a  day  after  he  painted 
Matteo's  picture  that  he  took  such  high  standing  in  Florence 
as  to  receive  the  mastership  of  the  works  in  the  Pope's  chapel 
at  Rome.  Of  his  position  and  doings  there,  I  will  tell  you 
presently  ;  meantime,  let  us  complete  the  story  of  his  life. 

"By  these  works  Botticelli  obtained  great  honour  and 
reputation  among  the  many  competitors  who  were  labouring 
with  him,  whether  Florentines  or  natives  of  other  cities,  and 
received  from  the  Pope  a  considerable  sum  of  money  ;  but 
this  he  consumed  and  squandered  totally,  during  his  resi- 
dence in  Rome,  where  he  lived  without  due  care,  as  was  his 
habit." 

13.  Well,  but  one  would  have  liked  to  hear  hoiv  he  squan- 
dered his  money,  and  whether  he  was  without  care — of  other 
things  than  money. 

It  is  just  possible,  Master  Vasari,  that  Botticelli  may  have 
laid  out  his  money  at  higher  interest  than  you  know  of  ;  mean- 
time, he  is  advancing  in  life  and  thought,  and  becoming  less 
and  less  comprehensible  to  his  biographer.  And  at  length, 
having  got  rid,  somehow,  of  the  money  he  received  from  the 
Pope  ;  and  finished  the  work  he  had  to  do,  and  uncovered  i% 
— free  in  conscience,  and  empty  in  purse,  he  returned  to  Flor- 
ence, where,  "  being  a  sophistical  person,  he  made  a  comment 
on  a  part  of  Dante,  and  drew  the  Inferno,  and  put  it  in  en- 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENO RAVING.  359 

graving,  in  which  he  consumed  much  time  ;  and  not  working 
for  this  reason,  brought  infinite  disorder  into  his  affairs. " 

14.  Unpaid  work,  this  engraving  of  Dante,  you  perceive, — 
consuming  much  time  also,  and  not  appearing  to  Vasari  to  be 
work  at  all.  It  is  but  a  short  sentence,  gentlemen, — this,  in 
the  old  edition  of  Vasari,  and  obscurely  worded, — a  very  fool- 
ish person's  contemptuous  report  of  a  thing  to  him  totally  in- 
comprehensible. But  the  thing  itself  is  out-and-out  the  most 
important  fact  in  the  history  of  the  religious  art  of  Italy.  I 
can  show  you  its  significance  in  not  many  more  words  than 
have  served  to  record  it. 

Botticelli  had  been  painting  in  Borne  ;  and  had  expressly 
chosen  to  represent  there, — being  Master  of  Works,  in  the 
presence  of  the  Defender  of  the  Faith, — the  foundation  of 
the  Mosaic  law  ;  to  his  mind  the  Eternal  Law  of  God, — that 
law  of  which  modern  Evangelicals  sing  perpetually  their  own 
original  psalm,  "  Oh,  how  hate  I  Thy  law  !  it  is  my  abomina- 
tion all  the  day."  Beturning  to  Florence,  he  reads  Dante's 
vision  of  the  Hell  created  by  its  violation.  He  knows  that 
the  pictures  he  has  painted  in  Borne  cannot  be  understood  by 
the  people  ;  they  are  exclusively  for  the  best  trained  scholars 
in  the  Church.  Dante,  on  the  other  hand,  can  only  be  read 
in  manuscript ;  but  the  people  could  and  would  understand 
his  lessons,  if  they  were  pictured  in  accessible  and  enduring 
form.  He  throws  all  his  own  lauded  work  aside, — all  for 
which  he  is  most  honoured,  and  in  which  his  now  matured 
and  magnificent  skill  is  as  easy  to  him  as  singing  to  a  per- 
fect musician.  And  he  sets  himself  to  a  servile  and  de- 
spised labour, — his  friends  mocking  him,  his  resources  fail- 
ing him,  infinite  'disorder'  getting  into  his  affairs— of  this 
world. 

15.  Never  such  another  thing  happened  in  Italy  any  more. 
Botticelli  engraved  her  Pilgrim's  Progress  for  her,  putting 
himself  in  prison  to  do  it.  She  would  not  read  it  when  done. 
Baphael  and  Marc  Antonio  were  the  theologians  for  her 
money.  Pretty  Madonnas,  and  satyrs  with  abundance  of  tail, 
—let  our  pilgrim's  progress  be  in  these  directions,  if  you 
please. 


SGO  ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 

Botticelli's  own  pilgrimage,  however,  was  now  to  be  accom- 
plished triumphantly,  with  such  crowning  blessings  as  Heaven 
might  grant  to  him.  In  spite  of  his  friends  and  his  disor- 
dered affairs,  he  went  his  own  obstinate  way  ;  and  found 
another  man's  words  worth  engraving  as  well  as  Dante's ;  not 
without  perpetuating,  also,  what  he  deemed  worthy  of  his 
own. 

16.  What  would  that  be,  think  you  ?  His  chosen  works 
before  the  Pope  in  Rome  ? — his  admired  Madonnas  in  Flor- 
ence ? — his  choirs  of  angels  and  thickets  of  flowers  ?  Some 
few  of  these — yes,  as  you  shall  presently  see  ;  but  "  the  best 
attempt  of  this  kind  from  his  hand  is  the  Triumph  of  Faith, 
by  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  of  Ferrara,  of  whose  sect  our 
artist  was  so  zealous  a  partisan  that  he  totally  abandoned 
painting,  and  not  having  any  other  means  of  living,  he  fell 
into  very  great  difficulties.  But  his  attachment  to  the  party 
he  had  adopted  increased  ;  he  became  what  was  then  called  a 
Piagnone,  or  Mourner,  and  abandoned  all  labour ;  insomuch 
that,  finding  himself  at  length  become  old,  being  also  very 
poor,  he  must  have  died  of  hunger  had  he  not  been  sup- 
ported by  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  for  whom  he  had  worked  at 
the  small  hospital  of  Volterra  and  other  places,  wTho  assisted 
him  while  he  lived,  as  did  other  friends  and  admirers  of  his 
talents." 

17.  In  such  dignity  and  independence — having  employed 
his  talents  not  wholly  at  the  orders  of  the  dealer — died,  a 
poor  bedesman  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  the  President  of  that 
high  academy  of  art  in  Rome,  whose  Academicians  were  Pe- 
rugino,  Ghirlandajo,  Angelico,  and  Signorelli  ;  and  whose 
students,  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael. 

'A  worthless,  ill-conducted  fellow  on  the  whole,' thinks 
Vasari,  c  wTith  a  crazy  fancy  for  scratching  on  copper.' 

"Well,  here  are  some  of  the  scratches  for  you  to  see  ;  only, 
first,  I  must  ask  you  seriously  for  a  few  moments  to  consider 
what  the  two  powers  were,  which,  with  this  iron  pen  of  his, 
he  has  set  himself  to  reprove. 

18.  Twto  great  forms  of  authority  reigned  over  the  entire 
civilized  world,  confessedly,  and  by  name,  in  the  middle  ages. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  361 


They  reign  over  it  still,  and  must  for  ever,  though  at  present 
very  far  from  confessed  ;  and,  in  most  places,  ragingly  denied. 

The  first  power  is  that  of  the  Teacher,  or  true  Father  ;  the 
Father  '  in  God/  It  may  be — happy  the  children  to  whom  it 
is — the  actual  father  also  ;  and  whose  parents  have  been  their 
tutors.  But  for  the  most  part,  it  will  be  some  one  else  who 
teaches  them,  and  moulds  their  minds  and  brain.  All  such 
teaching,  when  true,  being  from  above,  and  coming  down 
from  the  Father  of  Lights,  with  whom  is  no  variableness, 
neither  shadow  of  turning,  is  properly  that  of  the  holy  Catho- 
lic £  eKKXrjo-ia,'  council,  church,  or  papacy,  of  many  fathers  in 
God,  not  of  one.  Eternally  powerful  and  divine  ;  reverenced 
of  all  humble  and  lowly  scholars,  in  Jewry,  in  Greece,  in  Rome, 
in  Gaul,  in  England,  and  beyond  sea,  from  Arctic  zone  to  zone. 

The  second  authority  is  the  power  of  National  Law,  enforc- 
ing justice  in  conduct  by  due  reward  and  punishment.  Power 
vested  necessarily  in  magistrates  capable  of  administering  it 
with  mercy  and  equity  ;  whose  authority,  be  it  of  many  or 
few,  is  again  divine,  as  proceeding  from  the  King  of  kings, 
and  was  acknowledged,  throughout  civilized  Christendom,  as 
the  power  of  the  Holy  Empire,  or  Holy  Roman  Empire,  be- 
cause first  throned  in  Rome  ;  but  it  is  for  ever  also  acknowl- 
edged, namelessly,  or  by  name,  by  all  loyal,  obedient,  just, 
and  humble  hearts,  which  truly  desire  that,  whether  for  them 
or  against  them,  the  eternal  equities  and  dooms  of  Heaven 
should  be  pronounced  and  executed  ;  and  as  the  wisdom  or 
word  of  their  Father  should  be  taught,  so  the  will  of  their 
Father  should  be  done,  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven. 

19.  You  all  here  know  what  contention,  first,  and  then 
what  corruption  and  dishonour,  had  paralyzed  these  two  pow- 
ers before  the  days  of  which  we  now  speak.  Reproof,  and 
either  reform  or  rebellion,  became  necessary  everywhere. 
The  northern  Reformers,  Holbein,  and  Luther,  and  Henry, 
and  Cromwell,  set  themselves  to  their  task  rudely,  and,  it 
might  seem,  carried  it  through.  The  southern  Reformers, 
Dante,  and  Savonarola,  and  Botticelli,  set  hand  to  their  task 
reverently,  and,  it  seemed,  did  not  by  any  means  carry  it 
through.    But  the  end  is  not  yet. 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


20.  Now  I  shall  endeavour  to-day  to  set  before  you  the  art 
of  Botticelli,  especially  as  exhibiting  the  modesty  of  great  im- 
agination trained  in  reverence,  which  characterized  the  south- 
ern Reformers  ;  and  as  opposed  to  the  immodesty  of  narrow 
imagination,  trained  in  self  trust,  which  characterized  the 
northern  Reformers. 

•  The  modesty  of  great  imagination  ; 9  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
power  wrhich  conceives  all  things  in  true  relation,  and  not  ^only 
as  they  affect  ourselves.  I  can  show  you  this  most  definitely 
by  taking  one  example  of  the  modern,  and  unschooled  temper, 
in  Bewick  ;*  and  setting  it  beside  Botticelli's  treatment  of  the 
same  subject  of  thought, — namely,  the  meaning  of  war,  and 
the  reforms  necessary  in  the  carrying  on  of  war. 

21.  Both  the  men  are  entirely  at  one  in  their  purpose. 
They  yearn  for  peace  and  justice  to  rule  over  the  earth,  in- 
stead of  the  sword  ;  but  see  how  differently  they  will  say  what 
is  in  their  hearts  to  the  people  they  address.  To  Bewick,  war 
was  more  an  absurdity  than  it  was  a  horror  :  he  had  not  seen 
battle-fields,  still  less  had  he  read  of  them,  in  ancient  days. 
He  cared  nothing  about  heroes, — Greek,  Roman,  or  Norman. 
What  he  knew,  and  saw  clearly,  was  that  Farmer  Hodge's  boy 
went  out  of  the  village  one  holiday  afternoon,  a  fine  young- 
fellow,  rather  drunk,  with  a  coloured  riband  in  his  hat ;  and 
came  back,  ten  years  afterwards,  with  one  leg,  one  eye,  an  old 
red  coat,  and  a  tobacco  pipe  in  the  pocket  of  it.  That  is  what 
he  has  got  to  say,  mainly.  So,  for  the  pathetic  side  of  the 
business,  he  draws  you  two  old  soldiers  meeting  as  bricklay- 
ers' labourers  ;  and  for  the  absurd  side  of  it,  he  draws  a  stone, 
sloping  sideways  with  age,  in  a  bare  field,  on  which  you  can 
just  read,  out  of  a  long  inscription,  the  words  "  glorious  vic- 
tory ;  "  but  no  one  is  there  to  read  them, — only  a  jackass,  who 
uses  the  stone  to  scratch  himself  against. 

22.  Now  compare  with  this  Botticelli's  reproof  of  war.  He 

*  I  am  bitterly  sorry  for  the  pain  which  my  partial  references  to  the 
man  whom  of  all  English  artists  whose  histories  I  have  read,  I  most  es- 
teem, have  given  to  one  remaining  member  of  his  family.  I  hope  my 
meaning  may  be  better  understood  after  she  has  seen  the  close  of  this 
lecture. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  363 


had  seen  it,  and  often  ;  and  between  noble  persons ; — knew 
the  temper  in  which  the  noblest  knights  went  out  to  it ; — 
knew  the  strength,  the  patience,  the  glory,  and  the  grief  of  it. 
He  would  fain  see  his  Florence  in  peace  ;  and  yet  he  knows 
that  the  wisest  of  her  citizens  are  her  bravest  soldiers.  So  he 
seeks  for  the  ideal  of  a  soldier,  and  for  the  greatest  glory  of 
war,  that  in  the  presence  of  these  he  may  speak  reverently, 
what  he  must  speak.  He  does  not  go  to  Greece  for  his  hero. 
He  is  not  sure  that  even  her  patriotic  wars  were  always  right. 
But5  by  his  religious  faith,  he  cannot  doubt  the  nobleness  of 
the  soldier  who  put  the  children  of  Israel  in  possession  of  their 
promised  land,  and  to  whom  the  sign  of  the  consent  of  heaven 
was  given  by  its  pausing  light  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon.  Must 
then  setting  sun  and  risen  moon  stay,  he  thinks,  only  to  look 
upon  slaughter?  May  no  soldier  of  Christ  bid  them  stay 
otherwise  than  so  ?  He  draws  Joshua,  but  quitting  his  hold 
of  the  sword  :  its  hilt  rests  on  his  bent  knee  ;  and  he  kneels 
before  the  sun,  not  commands  it ;  and  this  is  his  prayer  : — 

"  Oh,  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords,  who  alone  rulest 
always  in  eternity,  and  who  correctest  all  our  wanderings, — 
Giver  of  melody  to  the  choir  of  angels,  listen  Thou  a  little  to 
our  bitter  grief,  and  come  and  rule  us,  oh  Thou  highest  King, 
with  Thy  love  which  is  so  sweet !  " 

Is  not  that  a  little  better,  and  a  little  wiser,  than  Bewick's 
jackass  ?  Is  it  not  also  better,  and  wiser,  than  the  sneer  of 
modern  science?  '  "What  great  men  are  we  ! — we,  forsooth, 
can  make  almanacs,  and  know  that  the  earth  turns  round. 
Joshua  indeed  !  Let  us  have  no  more  talk  of  the  old  clothes- 
man.' 

All  Bewick's  simplicity  is  in  that ;  but  none  of  Bewick's  un- 
derstanding. 

23.  I  pass  to  the  attack  made  by  Botticelli  upon  the  guilt 
of  wealth.  So  I  had  at  first  written ;  but  I  should  rather 
have  written,  the  appeal  made  by  him  against  the  cruelty  of 
wealth,  then  first  attaining  the  power  it  has  maintained  to  this 
day. 

The  practice  of  receiving  interest  had  been  confined,  until 
this  fifteenth  century,  with  contempt  and  malediction,  to  the 


364 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


profession,  so  styled,  of  usurers,  or  to  the  Jews.  The  mer- 
chants of  Augsburg  introduced  it  as  a  convenient  and  pleasant 
practice  among  Christians  also  ;  and  insisted  that  it  was  de- 
corous and  proper  even  among  respectable  merchants.  In  the 
view  of  the  Christian  Church  of  their  day,  they  might  more 
reasonably  have  set  themselves  to  defend  adultery.*  How- 
ever, they  appointed  Dr.  John  Eck,  of  Ingoldstadt,  to  hold 
debates  in  all  possible  universities,  at  their  expense,  oh  the 
allowing  of  interest ;  and  as  these  Augsburgers  had  in  Venice 
their  special  mart,  Fondaco,  called  of  the  Germans,  their  new 
notions  came  into  direct  collision  with  old  Venetian  ones,  and 
were  much  hindered  by  them,  and  all  the  more,  because,  in 
opposition  to  Dr.  John  Eck,  there  was  preaching  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Alps.  The  Franciscans,  poor  themselves,  preached 
mercy  to  the  poor  :  one  of  them,  Brother  Marco  of  San  Gallo, 
planned  the  '  Mount  of  Pity/  for  their  defence,  and  the  mer- 
chants of  Venice  set  up  the  first  in  the  world,  against  the 
German  Fondaco.  The  dispute  burned  far  on  towards  our 
own  times.  You  perhaps  have  heard  before  of  one  Antonio, 
a  merchant  of  Venice,  who  persistently  retained  the  then  ob- 
solete practice  of  lending  money  gratis,  and  of  the  peril  it 
brought  him  into  with  the  usurers.  But  you  perhaps  did  not 
before  know  why  it  was  the  flesh,  or  heart  of  flesh,  in  him, 
that  they  so  hated. 

24.  Against  this  newly  risen  demon  of  authorized  usury, 
Holbein  and  Botticelli  went  out  to  war  together.  Holbein, 
as  we  have  partly  seen  in  his  designs  for  the  Dance  of  Death, 
struck  with  all  his  soldier's  strength,  f  Botticelli  uses  neither- 
satire  nor  reproach.  IJe  turns  altogether  away  from  the  crim- 
inals ;  appeals  only  to  heaven  for  defence  against  them.  He 
engraves  the  design  wrhich,  of  all  his  work,  must  have  cost  him 
hardest  toil  in  its  execution, — the  Virgin  praying  to  her  Son 
in  heaven  for  pity  upon  the  poor  :  "  For  these  are  also  my 
children."  J    Underneath,  are  the  seven  works  of  Mercy  ;  and 

*  Read  Ezekiel  xviii. 

f  See  also  the  account  by  Dr.  Woltmann  of  the  picture  of  the  Triumph 
of  Riches.    4  Holbein  and  his  Time,'  p.  352. 

\  These  words  are  engraved  in  the  plate,  as  spoken  by  the  Virgin. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


365 


in  the  midst  of  them,  the  building  of  the  Mount  of  Pity  :  in 
the  distance  lies  Italy,  mapped  in  cape  and  bay,  with  the  cities 
which  had  founded  mounts  of  pity, — Venice  in  the  distance, 
chief.  Little  seen,  but  engraved  with  the  master's  loveliest 
care,  in  the  background  there  is  a  group  of  two  small  figures 
— the  Franciscan  brother  kneeling,  and  an  angel  of  Victory 
crowning  him. 

25.  I  call  it  an  angel  of  Victory,  observe,  with  assurance  ; 
although  there  is  no  legend  claiming  victory,  or  distinguish- 
ing this  angel  from  any  other  of  those  which  adorn  with  crowns 
of  flowers  the  nameless  crowTds  of  the  blessed.  For  Botticelli 
has  other  ways  of  speaking  than  by  written  legends.  I  know 
by  a  glance  at  this  angel  that  he  has  taken  the  action  of  it 
from  a  Greek  coin  ;  and  I  know  also  that  he  had  not,  in  his 
own  exuberant  fancy,  the  least  need  to  copy  the  action  of  any 
figure  whatever.  So  I  understand,  as  well  as  if  he  spoke  to 
me,  that  he  expects  me,  if  I  am  an  educated  gentleman,  to 
recognize  this  particular  action  as  a  Greek  angel's  ;  and  to 
know  that  it  is  a  temporal  victory  which  it  crowns. 

26.  And  now  farther,  observe,  that  this  classical  learning  of 
Botticelli's,  received  by  him,  as  I  told  you,  as  a  native  element 
of  his  being,  gives  not  only  greater  dignity  and  gentleness, 
but  far  wider  range,  to  his  thoughts  of  Reformation.  As  he 
asks  for  pity  from  the  cruel  Jew  to  the  poor  Gentile,  so  he  asks 
for  pity  from  the  proud  Christian  to  the  untaught  Gentile. 
Nay,  for  more  than  pity,  for  fellowship,  and  acknowledgment 
of  equality  before  God.  The  learned  men  of  his  age  in  gen- 
eral brought  back  the  Greek  mythology  as  anti-Christian. 
But  Botticelli  and  Perugino,  as  pre-Christian  ;  nor  only  as 
pre-Christian,  but  as  the  foundation  of  Christianity.  But 
chiefly  Botticelli,  with  perfect  grasp  of  the  Mosaic  and  classic 
theology,  thought  over  and  seized  the  harmonies  of  both  ;  and 
he  it  was  who  gave  the  conception  of  that  great  choir  of  the 
prophets  and  sibyls,  of  which  Michael  Angelo,  more  or  less 
ignorantly  borrowing  it  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  in  great  part 
lost  the  meaning,  while  he  magnified  the  aspect. 

27.  For,  indeed,  all  Christian  and  heathen  mythology  had 
alike  become  to  Michael  Angelo  only  a  vehicle  for  the  display 


SGO 


ARIADNE  FL ORE N TINA, 


of  his  own  powers  of  drawing  limbs  and  trunks  :  and  having 
resolved,  and  made  the  world  of  his  day  believe,  that  all  the 
glory  of  design  lay  in  variety  of  difficult  attitude,  he  flings  the 
naked  bodies  about  his  ceiling  with  an  upholsterer's  ingenuity 
of  appliance  to  the  corners  they  could  fit,  but  with  total  ab- 
sence of  any  legible  meaning.  Nor  do  I  suppose  that  one 
person  in  a  million,  even  of  those  who  have  some  acquaintance 
with  the  earlier  masters,  takes  patience  in  the  Sistine  Chapel 
to  conceive  the  original  design.  But  Botticelli's  mastership 
of  the  wTorks  evidently  was  given  to  him  as  a  theologian,  even 
more  than  as  a  painter  ;  and  the  moment  when  he  came  to 
Rome  to  receive  it,  you  may  hold  for  the  crisis  of  the  Refor- 
mation in  Italy.  The  main  effort  to  save  her  priesthood  was 
about  to  be  made  by  her  wisest  Reformer, — face  to  face  with 
the  head  of  her  Church, — not  in  contest  with  him,  but  in  the 
humblest  subjection  to  him  ;  and  in  adornment  of  his  own 
chapel  for  his  own  delight,  and  more  than  delight,  if  it  might 
be. 

28.  Sandro  brings  to  work,  not  under  him,  but  with  him, 
the  three  other  strongest  and  worthiest  men  he  knows,  Peru- 
gino,  Ghirlandajo,  and  Luca  Signorelli.  There  is  evidently 
entire  fellowship  in  thought  between  Botticelli  and  Perugino. 
They  two  together  plan  the  whole  ;  and  Botticelli,  though  the 
master,  yields  to  Perugino  the  principal  place,  the  end  of  the 
chapel,  on  which  is  to  be  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin.  It 
was  Perugino's  favourite  subject,  done  with  his  central 
strength  ;  assuredly  the  crowning  wrork  of  his  life,  and  of 
lovely  Christian  art  in  Europe. 

Michael  Angelo  painted  it  out,  and  drew  devils  and  dead 
bodies  all  over  the  wall  instead.  But  there  remains  to  us, 
happily,  the  series  of  subjects  designed  by  Botticelli  to  lead 
up  to  this  lost  one. 

29.  He  came,  I  said,  not  to  attack,  but  to  restore  the  Papal 
authority.  To  show  the  power  of  inherited  honour,  and  uni- 
versal claim  of  divine  law,  in  the  Jewish  and  Christian  Church, 
— the  law  delivered  first  by  Moses  ;  then,  in  final  grace  and 
truth,  by  Christ. 

He  designed  twelve  great  pictures,  each  containing  some 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING,  367 


twenty  figures  the  size  of  life,  and  groups  of  smaller  ones 
scarcely  to  be  counted.  Twelve  pictures, — six  to  illustrate 
the  giving  of  the  law  by  Moses ;  and  six,  the  ratification  and 
completion  of  it  by  Christ.  Event  by  event,  the  jurispru- 
dence of  each  dispensation  is  traced  from  dawn  to  close  in 
this  correspondence. 


1.  Covenant  of  Circumcision. 

2.  Entrance  on  his  Ministry 

by  Moses. 

3.  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea. 

4.  Delivery  of  Law  on  Sinai. 

5.  Destruction  of  Korah. 

6.  Death  of  Moses. 


7.  Covenant  of  Baptism. 

8.  Entrance  on  his  Ministry  by 

Christ. 

9.  Peter  and  Andrew  by  the  Sea  of  ; 
Galilee. 

10.  Sermon  on  Mount. 

11.  Giving  Keys  to  St.  Peter. 

12.  Last  Supper. 


Of  these  pictures,  Sandro  painted  three  himself,  Perugino 
three,  and  the  Assumption  ;  Ghirlandajo  one,  Signorelli  one, 
and  Eosselli  four.*  I  believe  that  Sandro  intended  to  take 
the  roof  also,  and  had  sketched  out  the  main  succession  of  its 
design ;  and  that  the  prophets  and  sibyls  which  he  meant  to 
paint,  he  drew  first  small,  and  engraved  his  drawings  after- 
wards, that  some  part  of  the  work  might  be,  at  all  events,  thus 
communicable  to  the  world  outside  of  the  Vatican. 

30.  It  is  not  often  that  I  tell  you  my  beliefs  ;  but  I  am 
forced  here,  for  there  are  no  dates  to  found  more  on.  Is  it 
not  wonderful  that  among  all  the  infinite  mass  of  fool's 
thoughts  about  the  "  majestic  works  of  Michael  Angelo  "  in 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  no  slightly  more  rational  person  has  ever 
asked  what  the  chapel  was  first  meant  to  be  like,  and  how  it 
was  to  be  roofed  ? 

Nor  can  I  assure  myself,  still  less  you,  that  all  these  prophets 
and  sibyls  are  Botticelli's.  Of  many  there  are  two  engravings, 
with  variations  :  some  are  inferior  in  parts,  many  altogether. 
He  signed  none  ;  never  put  grand  tablets  with  '  S.  B.'  into  his 
skies ;  had  other  letters  than  those  to  engrave,  and  no  time 
to  spare.  I  have  chosen  out  of  the  series  three  of  the  sibyls, 
which  have,  I  think,  clear  internal  evidence  of  being  his  ;  and 

*  Cosimo  Rosselli,  especially  chosen  by  the  Pope  for  his  gay  colouring. 


368 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


these  you  shall  compare  with  Michael  Angelo's.  But  first  1 
must  put  you  in  mind  what  the  sibyls  were. 

31.  As  the  prophets  represent  the  voice  of  God  in  man,  the 
sibyls  represent  the  voice  of  God  in  nature.  They  are  prop- 
erty all  forms  of  one  sibyl,  Atos  BovA??,  the  counsel  of  God  j 
and  the  chief  one,  at  least  in  the  Roman  mind,  was  the  Sibyl 
of  Cumae.  From  the  traditions  of  her,  the  Romans,  and  we 
through  them,  received  whatever  lessons  the  myth,  or  faet,  of 
sibyl  power  has  given  to  mortals. 

How  much  have  you  received,  or  may  you  yet  receive,  think 
you,  of  that  teaching  ?  I  call  it  the  myth,  or  fact ;  but  re- 
member that,  as  a  myth,  it  is  a  fact.  This  story  has  concen- 
trated whatever  good  there  is  in  the  imagination  of  visionary 
powers  in  women,  inspired  by  nature  only.  The  traditions 
of  witch  and  gipsy  are  partly  its  offshoots.  You  despise  both, 
perhaps.  But  can  you,  though  in  utmost  pride  of  your  su- 
preme modern  wisdom,  suppose  that  the  character — say,  even 
of  so  poor  and  far-fallen  a  sibyl  as  Meg  Merrilies — is  only  the 
coinage  of  Scott's  brain  ;  or  that,  even  being  no  more,  it  is 
valueless  ?  Admit  the  figure  of  the  Cumaean  Sibyl,  in  like 
manner,  to  be  the  coinage  only  of  Virgil's  brain.  As  such,  it, 
and  the  words  it  speaks,  are  yet  facts  in  which  we  may  find 
use,  if  we  are  reverent  to  them. 

To  me,  personally,  (I  must  take  your  indulgence  for  a  mo- 
ment to  speak  wholly  of  myself,)  they  have  been  of  the  truest 
service — quite  material  and  indisputable. 

I  am  writing  on  St.  John's  Day,  in  the  monastery  of  Assisi ; 
and  I  had  no  idea  whatever,  when  I  sat  down  to  my  work  this 
morning,  of  saying  any  word  of  what  I  am  now  going  to  tell 
you.  I  meant  only  to  expand  and  explain  a  little  what  I  said 
in  my  lecture  about  the  Florentine  engraving.  But  it  seems 
to  me  now  that  I  had  better  tell  you  what  the  Cumaean  Sibyl 
has  actually  done  for  me. 

32.  In  1871,  partly  in  consequence  of  chagrin  at  the  Revo- 
lution in  Paris,  and  partly  in  great  personal  sorrow,  I  was 
struck  by  acute  inflammatory  illness  at  Matlock,  and  reduced 
to  a  state  of  extreme  weakness  ;  lying  at  one  time  unconscious 
for  some  hours,  those  about  me  having  no  hope  of  my  life.  I 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING. 


869 


have  no  doubt  that  the  immediate  cause  of  the  illness  was 
simply,  eating  when  I  was  not  hungry  ;  so  that  modern  science 
would  acknowledge  nothing  in  the  whole  business  but  an  ex- 
treme and  very  dangerous  form  of  indigestion  ;  and  entirely 
deny  any  interference  of  the  Cumaean  Sibyl  in  the  matter. 

I  once  heard  a  sermon  by  Dr.  Guthrie,  in  Edinburgh,  upon 
the  wickedness  of  fasting.  It  was  very  eloquent  and  in- 
genious, and  finely  explained  the  superiority  of  the  Scotch 
Free  Church  to  the  benighted  Catholic  Church,  in  that  the 
Free  Church  saw  no  merit  in  fasting.  And  there  was  no 
mention,  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  sermon,  of  even  the 
existence  of  such  texts  as  Daniel  i.  12,  or  Matthew  vi.  16. 

Without  the  smallest  merit,  I  admit,  in  fasting,  I  was  never- 
theless, reduced  at  Matlock  to  a  state  very  near  starvation  ; 
and  could  not  rise  from  my  pillow,  without  being  lifted,  for 
some  days.  And  in  the  first  clearly  pronounced  stage  of  re- 
covery, when  the  perfect  powers  of  spirit  had  returned,  while 
the  body  was  still  as  weak  as  it  well  could  be,  I  had  three 
dreams,  which  made  a  great  impression  on  me  ;  for  in  ordi- 
nary health  my  dreams  are  supremely  ridiculous,  if  not  un- 
pleasant ;  and  in  ordinary  conditions  of  illness,  very  ugly,  and 
always  without  the  slightest  meaning.  But  these  dreams  were 
all  distinct  and  impressive,  and  had  much  meaning,  if  I  chose 
to  take  it. 

33.  The  first  *  was  of  a  Venetian  fisherman,  who  wanted  me 
to  follow  him  down  into  some  water  which  I  thought  was  too 
deep  ;  but  he  called  me  on,  saying  he  had  something  to  show 
me  ;  so  I  followed  him  ;  and  presently,  through  an  opening, 
as  if  in  the  arsenal  wall,  he  showed  me  the  bronze  horses  of 
St.  Mark's,  and  said,  'See,  the  horses  are  putting  on  their 
harness.' 

The  second  was  of  a  preparation  at  Rome,  in  St.  Peter's,  (or 
a  vast  hall  as  large  as  St.  Peter's, )  for  the  exhibition  of  a  relig- 
ious drama.  Part  of  the  play  was  to  be  a  scene  in  which 
demons  were  to  appear  in  the  sky  ;  and  the  stage  servants 
were  arranging  grey  fictitious  clouds,  and  painted  fiends,  for 
it,  under  the  direction  of  the  priests.  There  was  a  woman 
*  I  am  not  certain  of  their  order  at  this  distance  of  time. 


ABIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


dressed  in  black,  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  stage  watching 
them,  having  a  likeness  in  her  face  to  one  of  my  own  dead 
friends  ;  and  I  knew  somehow  that  she  was  not  that  friend, 
but  a  spirit ;  and  she  made  me  understand,  without  speaking, 
that  I  was  to  watch,  for  the  play  would  turn  out  other  than 
the  priests  expected.  And  I  waited  ;  and  when  the  scene 
came  on  the  clouds  became  real  clouds,  and  the  fiends  real 
fiends,  agitating  them  in  slow  quivering,  wild  and  terrible, 
over  the  heads  of  the  people  and  priests.  I  recollected  dis-. 
tinctly,  however,  when  I  woke,  only  the  figure  of  the  black 
woman  mocking  the  people,  and  of  one  priest  in  an  agony  of 
terror,  with  the  sweat  pouring  from  his  brow,  but  violently 
scolding  one  of  the  stage  servants  for  having  failed  in  some 
ceremony,  the  omission  of  which,  he  thought,  had  given  the 
devils  their  power. 

The  third  dream  was  the  most  interesting  and  personal. 
Some  one  came  to  me  to  ask  me  to  help  in  the  deliverance  of 
a  company  of  Italian  prisoners  who  were  to  be  ransomed  for 
money.  I  said  I  had  no  money.  They  answered,  Yes,  I  had 
some  that  belonged  to  me  as  a  brother  of  St.  Francis,  if  I 
would  give  it  up.  I  said  I  did  not  know  even  that  I  was  a 
brother  of  St.  Francis  ;  but  I  thought  to  myself,  that  perhaps 
the  Franciscans  of  Fesole,  whom  I  had  helped  to  make  hay  in 
their  fields  in  1845,  had  adopted  me  for  one  ;  only  I  didn't 
see  how  the  consequence  of  that  would  be  my  having  any 
money.  However,  I  said  they  were  welcome  to  whatever  I 
had  ;  and  then  I  heard  the  voice  of  an  Italian  woman  singing  ; 
and  I  have  never  heard  such  divine  singing  before  nor  since  ; 
the  sounds  absolutely  strong  and  real,  and  the  melody  alto- 
gether lovely.  If  I  could  have  written  it !  But  I  could  not 
even  remember  it  when  I  woke, — only  how  beautiful  it  was. 

34.  Now  these  three  dreams  have,  every  one  of  them,  been 
of  much  use  to  me  since  ;  or  so  far  as  they  have  failed  to  be 
useful,  it  has  been  my  own  fault,  and  not  theirs  ;  but  the 
chief  use  of  them  at  the  time  was  to  give  me  courage  and  con- 
fidence in  myself,  both  in  bodily  distress,  of  which  I  had  still 
not  a  little  to  bear  ;  and  worse,  much  mental  anxiety  about 
matters  supremely  interesting  to  me,  which  were  turning  out 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF'  ENGRAVING.  871 


ill.  And  through  all  such  trouble — which  came  upon  me  as  I 
was  recovering,  as  if  it  meant  to  throw  me  back  into  the 
grave, — I  held  out  and  recovered,  repeating  always  to  myself, 
or  rather  having  always  murmured  in  my  ears,  at  every  new 
trial,  one  Latin  line, 

Tu  ne  cede  malis,  sed  contra  f  ortior  ito. 

Now  I  had  got  this  line  out  of  the  tablet  in  the  engraving  of 
Kaphael's  vision,  and  had  forgotten  where  it  came  from.  And 
I  thought  I  knew  my  sixth  book  of  Virgil  so  well,  that  I  never 
looked  at  it  again  while  I  was  giving  these  lectures  at  Oxford, 
and  it  was  only  here  at  Assisi,  the  other  day,  wanting  to  look 
more  accurately  at  the  first  scene  by  the  lake  Avernus,  that  I 
found  I  had  been  saved  by  the  words  of  the  Cumaean  Sibyl. 

35.  "Quam  tua  te  Fortuna  sinet,"  the  completion  of  the 
sentence,  has  yet  more  and  continual  teaching  in  it  for  me 
now  ;  as  it  has  for  all  men.  Her  opening  words,  which  have 
become  hackneyed,  and  lost  all  present  power  through  vulgar 
use  of  them,  contain  yet  one  of  the  most  immortal  truths  ever 
yet  spoken  for  mankind ;  and  they  will  never  lose  their  power 
of  help  for  noble  persons.  But  observe,  both  in  that  lesson, 
"  Facilis  descensus  Averni,"  etc.  ;  and  in  the  still  more  pre- 
cious, because  universal,  one  on  which  the  strength  of  Borne 
was  founded, — the  burning  of  the  books, — the  Sibyl  speaks 
only  as  the  voice  of  Nature,  and  of  her  laws  ; — not  as  a  divine 
helper,  prevailing  over  death  ;  but  as  a  mortal  teacher  warning 
us  against  it,  and  strengthening  us  for  our  mortal  time  ;  but 
not  for  eternity.  Of  which  lesson  her  own  history  is  a  part, 
and  her  habitation  by  the  Avernus  lake.  She  desires  im- 
mortality, fondly  and  vainly,  as  we  do  ourselves.  She  receives, 
from  the  love  of  her  refused  lover,  Apollo,  not  immortality, 
but  length  of  life  ; — her  years  to  be  as  the  grains  of  dust  in 
her  hand.  And  even  this  she  finds  was  a  false  desire  ;  and 
her  wise  and  holy  desire  at  last  is — to  die.  She  wastes  away ; 
becomes  a  shade  only,  and  a  voice.  The  Nations  ask  her, 
What  wouldst  thou  ?  She  answers,  Peace  ;  only  let  my  last 
words  be  true.     "  L'ultimo  mie  parlar  sie  verace." 


872 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


36.  Therefore,  if  anything  is  to  be  conceived,  rightly,  and 
chiefly,  in  the  form  of  the  Cumaean  Sibyl,  it  must  be  of  fading 
virginal  beauty,  of  enduring  patience,  of  far-looking  into  fu- 
turity. "For  after  my  death  there  shall  yet  return,"  she  says, 
S£  another  virgin." 

Jam  redit  et  virgo  ; — redeunt  Saturnia  regna, 
Ultima  Cumaei  venit  jam  carminis  aetas. 

Here  then  is  Botticelli's  Cumaean  Sibyl.  She  is  armed,  for 
she  is  the  prophetess  of  Roman  fortitude  ; — but  her  faded 
breast  scarcely  raises  the  corslet ;  her  hair  floats,  not  falls,  in 
waves  like  the  currents  of  a  river, — the  sign  of  enduring  life  ; 
the  light  is  full  on  her  forehead  :  she  looks  into  the  distance 
as  in  a  dream.  It  is  impossible  for  art  to  gather  together 
more  beautifully  or  intensely  every  image  which  can  express 
her  true  power,  or  lead  us  to  understand  her  lesson. 

37.  Now  you  do  not,  I  am  well  assured,  know  one  of 
Michael  Angelo's  sibyls  from  another  :  unless  perhaps  the 
Delphian,  whom  of  course  he  makes  as  beautiful  as  he  can. 
But  of  this  especially  Italian  prophetess,  one  would  have 
thought  he  might,  at  least  in  some  way,  have  shown  that  he 
knew  the  history,  even  if  he  did  not  understand  it.  She  might 
have  had  more  than  one  book,  at  all  events,  to  burn.  She 
might  have  had  a  stray  leaf  or  two  fallen  at  her  feet.  He 
could  not  indeed  have  painted  her  only  as  a  voice  ;  but  his 
anatomical  knowledge  need  not  have  hindered  him  from  paint- 
ing her  virginal  youth,  or  her  wasting  and  watching  age,  or 
her  inspired  hope  of  a  holier  future. 

38.  Opposite, — fortunately,  photograjDh  from  the  figure  it- 
self, so  that  you  can  suspect  me  of  no  exaggeration, — is 
Michael  Angelo's  Cumaean  Sibyl,  wasting  away.  It  is  by  a  gro- 
tesque and  most  strange  chance  that  he  should  have  made  the 
figure  of  this  Sybil,  of  all  others  in  the  chapel,  the  most  fleshly 
and  gross,  even  proceeding  to  the  monstrous  license  of  show- 
ing the  nipples  of  the  breast  as  if  the  dress  were  molded  over 
them  like  plaster.  Thus  he  paints  the  poor  nymph  beloved 
of  Apollo, — the  clearest  and  queeniiest  in  prophecy  and  com- 


Plate  VII. — For  a  Time  and  Times. 


Plate  VIII.— The  Nymph  Beloved  of  Apollo.    Michael  Angelo. 


me  ^  if  J  &k<cb 


MKlA/niE2G0LA  eTANDO  VIM  FARE 
TANTOHVHA  PANTINA  GRANDGNoftE 
TOUENVERCMITA  8fWOl  2ALVAI-, 
EPERDJVrNA  GRATIA  6Z2VO.WlLORg 
W2CEMM.UU  EVfENANCARNARf 
f IGIVOICHE  FHA  DfTAMTO  tPLEHDORf 
EfKE  DIOOK)  2VO  FIGLVOr.Vt-'RACi  E 
CHETTVTTf USCOIHO^TRP PO:-R,Y 


Plate  IX. — In  the  Woods  of  Ida. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  373 

mand  of  all  the  sybils, — as  an  ugly  crone,  with  the  arms  of 
Goliath,  poring  down  upon  a  single  book. 

39.  There  is  one  point  of  fine  detail,  however,  in  Botticelli's 
Cumaean  Sibyl,  and  in  the  next  I  am  going  to  show  you,  to 
explain  which  I  must  go  back  for  a  little  while  to  the  question 
of  the  direct  relation  of  the  Italian  painters  to  the  Greek.  I 
don't  like  repeating  in  one  lecture  what  I  have  said  in  another  ; 
but  to  save  you  the  trouble  of  reference,  must  remind  you  of 
what  I  stated  in  my  fourth  lecture  on  Greek  birds,  when  we 
were  examining  the  adoption  of  the  plume  crests  in  armour, 
that  the  crest  signifies  command  ;  but  the  diadem,  obedience  ; 
and  that  every  crown  is  primarily  a  diadem.  It  is  the  thing 
that  binds,  before  it  is  the  thing  that  honours. 

Now  all  the  great  schools  dwell  on  this  symbolism.  The 
long  flowing  hair  is  the  symbol  of  life,  and  the  8ta8^/xa  of  the 
law  restraining  it.  Eoyalty,  or  kingliness,  over  life,  restrain- 
ing and  glorifying.  In  the  extremity  of  restraint — in  death, 
whether  noble,  as  of  death  to  Earth,  or  ignoble  as  of  death  to 
Heaven,  the  SiaS-^a  is  fastened  with  the  mortcloth  :  "  Bound 
hand  and  foot  with  grave-clothes,  and  the  face  bound  about 
with  the  napkin.''' 

40.  Now  look  back  to  the  first  Greek  head  I  ever  showed 
you,  used  as  the  type  of  archaic  sculpture  in  Aratra  Pentelici, 
and  then  look  at  the  crown  in  Botticelli's  Astrologia.  It  is  ab- 
solutely the  Greek  form, — even  to  the  peculiar  oval  of  the 
forehead  ;  while  the  diadem — the  governing  law — is  set  with 
appointed  stars — to  rule  the  destiny  and  thought.  Then  re- 
turn to  the  Cumaean  Sibyl.  She,  as  we  have  seen,  is  the 
symbol  of  enduring  life — almost  immortal.  The  diadem  is 
withdrawn  from  the  forehead — reduced  to  a  narrow  fillet — 
here,  and  the  hair  thrown  free. 

41.  From  the  Cumaean  Sibyl's  diadem,  traced  only  by 
points,  turn  to  that  of  the  Hellespontic,  (Plate  9,  opposite). 
I  do  not  know  why  Botticelli  chose  her  for  the  spirit  of  proph- 
ecy in  old  age  ;  but  he  has  made  this  the  most  interesting 
plate  of  the  series  in  the  definiteness  of  its  connection  with 
the  work  from  Dante,  which  becomes  his  own  prophecy  in 
old  age.    The  fantastic  yet  solemn  treatment  of  the  gnarled 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TINA, 


wood  occurs,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  no  other  engravings  but 
this  and  the  illustrations  to  Dante  ;  and  I  am  content  to  teave 
it,  with  little  comment,  for  the  reader's  quiet  study,  as  show- 
ing the  exuberance  of  imagination  which  other  men  at  this 
time  in  Italy  allowed  to  waste  itself  in  idle  arabesque,  re- 
strained by  Botticelli  to  his  most  earnest  purposes  ;  and  giv- 
ing the  withered  tree-trunks  hewn  for  the  rude  throne  of  the 
aged  prophetess,  the  same  harmony  wTith  her  fading,  spirit 
which  the  rose  has  with  youth,  or  the  laurel  with  victory. 
Also  in  its  weird  characters,  you  have  the  best  example  I  can 
show  you  of  the  orders  of  decorative  design  which  are  espe- 
cially expressible  by  engraving,  and  which  belong  to  a  group 
of  art-instincts  scarcely  now  to  be  understood,  much  less  re- 
covered, (the  influence  of  modern  naturalistic  imitation  being 
too  strong  to  be  conquered) — the  instincts,  namely,  for  the 
arrangement  of  pure  line,  in  labyrinthine  intricacy,  through 
which  the  grace  of  order  may  give  continual  clue.  The  en- 
tire body  of  ornamental  design,  connected  with  writing,  in  the 
middle  ages  seems  as  if  it  were  a  sensible  symbol,  to  the  eye 
and  brain,  of  the  methods  of  error  and  recovery,  the  minglings 
of  crooked  with  straight,  and  perverse  with  progressive,  which 
constitute  the  great  problem  of  human  morals  and  fate  ;  and 
when  I  chose  the  title  for  the  collected  series  of  these  lectures, 
I  hoped  to  have  justified  it  by  careful  analysis  of  the  methods 
of  labyrinthine  ornament,  which,  made  sacred  by  Theseian  tra- 
ditions,* and  beginning  in  imitation  of  physical  truth,  with 
the  spiral  waves  of  the  waters  of  Babylon  as  the  Assyrian 
carved  them,  entangled  in  their  returns  the  eyes  of  men,  on 
Greek  vase  and  Christian  manuscript — till  they  closed  in  the 
arabesques  which  sprang  round  the  last  luxury  of  Venice  and 
Home. 

But  the  labyrinth  of  life  itself,  and  its  more  and  more  inter- 
woven occupation,  become  too  manifold,  and  too  difficult  for 
me;  and  of  the  time  wasted  in  the  blind  lanes  of  it,  perhaps  that 
spent  in  analysis  or  recommendation  of  the  art  to  which  men's 
present  conduct  makes  them  insensible,  has  been  chiefly  cast 
away.  On  the  walls  of  the  little  room  where  I  finally  revise 
*  Callimachus,  '  Delos/  304  etc. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  375 


this  lecture,*  hangs  an  old  silken  sampler  of  great-grandame's 
work  :  representing  the  domestic  life  of  Abraham  :  chiefly  the 
stories  of  Isaac  and  Ishmael.  Sarah  at  her  tent-door,  watching 
with  folded  arms,  the  dismissal  of  Hagar  :  above,  in  a  wilderness 
full  of  fruit  trees,  birds,  and  butterflies,  little  Ishmael  lying  at 
the  root  of  a  tree,  and  the  spent  bottle  under  another  ;  Hagar  in 
prayer,  and  the  angel  appearing  to  her  out  of  a  wreathed  line  of 
gloomily  undulating  clouds,  which,  with  a  dark-rayed  sun  in  the 
midst,  surmount  the  entire  composition  in  two  arches,  out  of 
which  descend  shafts  of  (I  suppose)  beneficent  rain  ;  leaving, 
however,  room,  in  the  corner  opposite  to  Ishmael's  angel,  for 
Isaac's,  who  stays  Abraham  in  the  sacrifice  :  the  ram  in  the 
thicket,  the  squirrel  in  the  plum  tree  above  him,  and  the 
grapes,  pears,  apples,  roses,  and  daisies  of  the  foreground, 
being  all  wrought  with  involution  of  such  ingenious  needle- 
work as  may  well  rank,  in  the  patience,  the  natural  skill,  and 
the  innocent  pleasure  of  it,  with  the  truest  works  of  Florentine 
engraving.  Nay  ;  the  actual  tradition  of  many  of  the  forms  of 
ancient  art  is  in  many  places  evident, — as  for  instance  in  the 
spiral  summits  of  the  flames  of  the  wood  on  the  altar,  which 
are  like  a  group  of  first-springing  fern.  On  the  Avail  opposite 
is  a  smaller  composition,  representing  Justice  with  her  bal- 
ance and  sword,  standing  between  the  sun  and  moon,  with  a 
background  of  pinks,  borage,  and  corncockle  :  a  third  is  only 
a  cluster  of  tulips  and  iris,  with  two  Byzantine  peacocks  ;  but 
the  spirits  of  Penelope  and  Ariadne  reign  vivid  in  all  the  work 
— and  the  richness  of  pleasurable  fancy  is  as  great  still,  in 
these  silken  labours,  as  in  the  marble  arches  and  golden  roof 
of  the  cathedral  of  Monreal. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  explaining  or  analyzing  it  ?  Such 
work  as  this  means  the  patience  and  simplicity  of  all  feminine 
life  ;  and  can  be  produced,  among  us  at  least,  no  more, 
Gothic  tracery  itself,  another  of  the  instinctive  labyrinthine 
intricacies  of  old,  though  analyzed  to  its  last  section,  has  be- 
come now  the  symbol  only  of  a  foolish  ecclesiastical  sect,  re- 
tained for  their  shibboleth,  joyless  and  powerless  for  all  good. 
The  very  labyrinth  of  the  grass  and  flowers  of  our  fields,  though 
*  In  the  Old  King's  Arms  Hotel,  Lancaster. 


376 


ARIADJSE  florentwa. 


dissected  to  its  last  leaf,  is  yet  bitten  bare,  or  trampled  to 
slime,  by  the  Minotaur  of  our  lust ;  and  for  the  traceried  spire 
of  the  poplar  by  the  brook,  we  possess  but  the  four-square 
furnace  tower,  to  mingle  its  smoke  with  heaven's  thunder- 
clouds.* 

We  will  look  yet  at  one  sampler  more  of  the  engraved  work, 
done  in  the  happy  time  when  flowers  were  pure,  youth  simple, 
and  imagination  gay, — Botticelli's  Libyan  Sibyl. 

Glance  back  first  to  the  Hellespontic,  noting  the  close  fillet, 
and  the  cloth  bound  below  the  face,  and  then  you  will  be  pre- 
pared to  understand  the  last  I  shall  show  you,  and  the  loveli- 
est of  the  southern  Pythonesses. 

42.  A  less  deep  thinker  than  Botticelli  would  have  made 
her  parched  with  thirst,  and  burnt  with  heat.  But  the  voice 
of  God,  through  nature,  to  the  Arab  or  the  Moor,  is  not  in  the 
thirst,  but  in  the  fountain, — not  in  the  desert,  but  in  the  grass 
of  it.  And  this  Libyan  Sibyl  is  the  spirit  of  wild  grass  and 
flowers,  springing  in  desolate  places. 

You  see,  her  diadem  is  a  wreath  of  them  ;  but  the  blossoms 
of  it  are  not  fastening  enough  for  her  hair,  though  it  is  not 
long  yet — (she  is  only  in  reality  a  Florentine  girl  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen) — so  the  little  darling  knots  it  under  her  ears,  and 
then  makes  herself  a  necklace  of  it.  But  though  flowing  hair 
and  flowers  are  wild  and  pretty,  Botticelli  had  not,  in  these 
only,  got  the  power  of  Spring  marked  to  his  mind.  Any  girl 
might  wear  flowers  ;  but  few,  for  ornament,  would  be  likely  to 
wear  grass.  So  the  Sibyl  shall  have  grass  in  her  diadem  ;  not 
merely  interwoven  and  bending,  but  springing  and  strong. 
You  thought  it  ugly  and  grotesque  at  first,  did  not  you  ?  It 
was  made  so,  because  precisely  what  Botticelli  wanted  you  to 
look  at. 

*  A  manufacturer  wrote  to  me  the  other  day,  "  We  don't  want  to  make 
smoke  !  "  Who  said  they  did  ? — a  hired  murderer  does  not  want  to 
commit  murder,  but  does  it  for  sufficient  motive.  (Even  our  shipown- 
ers don't  want  to  drown  their  sailors  ;  they  will  only  do  it  for  sufficient 
motive.)  If  the  dirty  creatures  did  want  to  make  smoke,  there  would 
he  more  excuse  for  them  :  and  that  they  are  not  clever  enough  to  con- 
sume it,  is  no  praise  to  them.  A  man  who  can  t  help  his  hiccough 
leaves  the  room ;  why  do  they  not  leave  the  England  they  pollute  ? 


N        >  LVMEOARAAUE  cose  nascose 

ElKrAMC  fSCORA  DEijNGSTaOEfcAOfUE 
FAAALESINAGOGE  IVMiNOS  £ 
ESGLVE&A  tELA&RAALPECH  ATOft£ 
EFU  STAD£&AD*TVT£  £ECHO$£ 

SE&i^Q^  BTO.ro  SAN  TO  EVr/£Hf£ 

Lr.   - "    " " ~   — 

Plate  X.— Grass  of  the  Desert. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  377 


But  that's  not  all.  This  conical  cap  of  hers,  with  one  bead 
at  the  top, — considering  how  fond  the  Florentines  are  of 
graceful  head-dresses,  this  seems  a  strange  one  for  a  young 
girl.  But,  exactly  as  I  know  the  angel  of  Victory  to  be  Greek, 
at  his  Mount  of  Pity,  so  I  know  this  head-dress  to  be  taken 
from  a  Greek  coin,  and  to  be  meant  for  a  Greek  symbol.  It 
is  the  Petasus  of  Hermes — the  mist  of  morning  over  the  dew. 
Lastly,  what  will  the  Libyan  Sibyl  say  to  you  ?  The  letters 
are  large  on  her  tablet.  Her  message  is  the  oracle  from  the 
temple  of  the  clew  :  "  The  dew  of  thy  birth  is  as  the  womb  of 
the  morning." — ct  Ecce  venientem  diem,  et  latentia  aperien- 
tem,  tenebit  gremio  gentium  regina." 

43.  Why  the  daybreak  came  not  then,  nor  yet  has  come, 
but  only  a  deeper  darkness  ;  and  why  there  is  now  neither 
queen  nor  king  of  nations,  but  every  man  doing  that  which  is 
right  in  his  own  eyes,  I  would  fain  go  on,  partly  to  tell  you, 
and  partly  to  meditate  with  you  :  but  it  is  not  our  work  for 
to-day.  The  issue  of  the  Reformation  which  these  great 
painters,  the  scholars  of  Dante,  began,  we  may  follow,  farther, 
in  the  study  to  which  I  propose  to  lead  you,  of  the  lives  of 
Cimabue  and  Giotto,  and  the  relation  of  their  work  at  Assisi 
to  the  chapel  and  chambers  of  the  Vatican. 

44.  To-day  let  me  finish  what  I  have  to  tell  you  of  the  style 
of  southern  engraving.  What  sudden  bathos  in  the  sentence, 
you  think  !  So  contemptible  the  question  of  style,  then,  in 
painting,  though  not  in  literature  ?  You  study  the  '  style '  of 
Homer  ;  the  style,  perhaps,  of  Isaiah  ;  the  style  of  Horace, 
and  of  Massillon.  Is  it  so  vain  to  study  the  style  of  Botti- 
celli? 

In  all  cases,  it  is  equally  vain,  if  you  think  of  their  style 
first.  But  know  their  purpose,  and  then,  their  way  of  speak- 
ing is  worth  thinking  of.  These  apparently  unfinished  and 
certainly  unfilled  outlines  of  the  Florentine, — clumsy  work, 
as  Vasari  thought  them, — as  Mr.  Otley  and  most  of  our 
English  amateurs  still  think  them, — are  these  good  or  bad 
engraving  ? 

You  may  ask  now,  comprehending  their  motive,  with  some 
hope  of  answering  or  being  answered  rightly.    And  the  an- 


378 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA, 


swer  is,  They  are  the  finest  gravers'  work  ever  done  yet  bv 
human  hand.  You  may  teach,  by  process  of  discipline  and 
of  years,  any  youth  of  good  artistic  capacity  to  engrave  a  plate 
in  the  modern  manner  ;  but  only  the  noblest  passion,  and  the 
tenderest  patience,  will  ever  engrave  one  line  like  these  of 
Sandro  Botticelli. 

45.  Passion,  and  patience  !  Nay,  even  these  you  may  have 
to-day  in  England,  and  yet  both  be  in  vain.  Only  a  few  years 
ago,  in  one  of  our  northern  iron-foundries,  a  workman  of  in- 
tense power  and  natural  art-faculty  set  himself  to  learn  en- 
graving ; — made  his  own  tools  ;  gave  all  the  spare  hours  of  his 
laborious  life  to  learn  their  use  ;  learnt  it ;  and  engraved  a 
plate  which,  in  manipulation,  no  professional  engraver  would 
be  ashamed  of.  He  engraved  his  blast  furnace,  and  the  cast- 
ing of  a  beam  of  a  steam  engine.  This,  to  him,  was  the  power 
of  God, — it  was  his  life. 

No  greater  earnestness  was  ever  given  by  man  to  promul- 
gate a  Gospel.  Nevertheless,  the  engraving  is  absolutely 
worthless.  The  blast  furnace  is  not  the  power  of  God  ;  and 
the  life  of  the  strong  spirit  was  as  much  consumed  in  the 
flames  of  it,  as  ever  driven  slaves  by  the  burden  and  heat  of 
the  day. 

How  cruel  to  say  so,  if  he  yet  lives,  you  think !  No,  my 
friends  ;  the  cruelty  will  be  in  you,  and  the  guilt,  if,  having 
been  brought  here  to  learn  that  God  is  your  Light,  you  yet 
leave  the  blast  furnace  to  be  the  only  light  of  England. 

It  has  been,  as  I  said  in  the  note  above  (p.  167),  with  ex- 
treme pain  that  I  have  hitherto  limited  my  notice  of  our  own 
great  engraver  and  moralist,  to  the  points  in  which  the  disad- 
vantages of  English  art-teaching  made  him  inferior  to  his 
trained  Florentine  rival.  But,  that  these  disadvantages  were 
powerless  to  arrest  or  ignobly  depress  him  ; — that  however 
failing  in  grace  and  scholarship,  he  should  never  fail  in  ti^ith 
or  vitality  ;  and  that  the  precision  of  his  unerring  hand  * — 

*  I  know  no  drawing  so  subtle  as  Bewick's,  since  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, except  Holbein's  and  Turner's.  I  have  been  greatly  surprised 
lately  by  the  exquisite  water-colour  work  in  some  of  Stothards  smaller 
vignettes  ;  but  he  cannot  set  the  line  like  Turner  or  Bewick. 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENGRAVING.  379 


liis  inevitable  eye — and  Lis  rightly  judging  heart — should 
place  him  in  the  first  rank  of  the  great  artists  not  of  England 
only,  but  of  all  the  world  and  of  all  time  : — that  this  was  pos- 
sible to  him,  was  simply  because  he  lived  a  country  life.  Be- 
wick himself,  Botticelli  himself,  Apelles  himself,  and  twenty 
times  Apelles,  condemned  to  slavery  in  the  hellfire  of  the  iron 
furnace,  could  have  done — Nothing.  Absolute  paralysis  of  all 
high  human  faculty  must  result  from  labour  near  fire.  The 
poor  engraver  of  the  piston-rod  had  faculties — not  like  Be- 
wick's, for  if  he  had  had  those,  he  never  would  have  endured 
the  degradation  ;  but  assuredly,  (I  know  this  by  his  work,) 
faculties  high  enough  to  have  made  him  one  of  the  most  ac- 
complished figure  painters  of  his  age.  And  they  are  scorched 
out  of  him,  as  the  sap  from  the  grass  in  the  oven :  while  on 
his  Northumberland  hill-sides,  Bewick  grew  into  as  stately 
life  as  their  strongest  pine. 

And  therefore,  in  words  of  his,  telling  consummate  and  un- 
changing truth  concerning  the  life,  honour,  and  happiness  of 
England,  and  bearing  directly  on  the  points  of  difference  be- 
tween class  and  class  which  I  have  not  dwelt  on  without  need, 
I  will  bring  these  lectures  to  a  close. 

"  I  have  always,  through  life,  been  of  opinion  that  there  is 
no  business  of  any  kind  that  can  be  compared  to  that  of  a  man 
who  farms  his  own.  land.  It  appears  to  me  that  every  earthly 
pleasure,  with  health,  is  within  his  reach.  But  numbers  of 
these  men  (the  old  statesmen)  were  grossly  ignorant,  and  in 
exact  proportion  to  that  ignorance  they  were  sure  to  be  offen- 
sively proud.  This  led  them  to  attempt  appearing  above  their 
station,  which  hastened  thein  on  to  their  ruin  ;  but,  indeed, 
this  disposition  and  this  kind  of  conduct  invariably  leads  to 
such  results.  There  were  many  of  these  lairds  on  Tyneside ; 
as  well  as  many  who  held  their  lands  on  the  tenure  of  S  suit 
and  service,'  and  were  nearly  on  the  same  level  as  the  lairds. 
Some  of  the  latter  lost  their  lands  (not  fairly,  I  think)  in  a  way 
they  could  not  help  ;  many  of  the  former,  by  their  misdirected 
pride  and  folly,  were  driven  into  towns,  to  slide  away  into 
nothingness,  and  to  sink  into  oblivion,  while  their  'ha' 
houses '  (halls),  that  ought  to  have  remained  in  their  families 


380 


ARIADNE  FL  0  REN  TINA. 


from  generation  to  generation,  have  mouldered  away.  I  have 
always  felt  extremely  grieved  to  see  the  ancient  mansions  of 
many  of  the  country  gentlemen,  from  somewhat  similar  causes, 
meet  with  a  similar  fate.  The  gentry  should,  in  an  especial 
manner,  prove  by  their  conduct  that  they  are  guarded  against 
showing  any  symptom  of  foolish  pride,  at  the  same  time  that 
they  soar  above  every  meanness,  and  that  their  conduct  is 
guided  by  truth,  integrity,  and  patriotism.  If  they  wish  the 
people  to  partake  with  them  in  these  good  qualities,  they  must 
set  them  the  example,  without  which  no  real  respect  can  ever 
be  paid  to  them.  Gentlemen  ought  never  to  forget  the  re- 
spectable station  they  hold  in  society,  and  that  they  are  the 
natural  guardians  of  public  morals  and  may  with  propriety 
be  considered  as  the  head  and  the  heart  of  the  country,  while 
'a  bold  peasantry'  are,  in  truth,  the  arms,  the  sinews,  and  the 
strength  of  the  same  ;  but  when  these  last  are  degraded,  they 
soon  become  dispirited  and  mean,  and  often  dishonest  and 
useless. 

******* 
"  This  singular  and  worthy  man  *  was  perhaps  the  most  in- 
valuable acquaintance  and  friend  I  ever  met  with.  His  moral 
lectures  and  advice  to  me  formed  a  most  important  succeda- 
neum  to  those  imparted  by  my  parents.  His  wise  remarks, 
his  detestation  of  vice,  his  industry,  and  his  temperance, 

*  Gilbert  Gray,  bookbinder.  I  have  to  correct  the  inaccurate — and 
very  harmfully  inaccurate,  expression  which  I  used  of  Bewick,  in  Love's 
Meinie,  4  a  printer's  lad  at  Newastle.'  His  first  master  was  a  goldsmith 
and  engraver,  else  he  could  never  have  been  an  artist.  I  am  very 
heartily  glad  to  make  this  correction,  which  establishes  another  link  of 
relation  between  Bewick  and  Botticelli ;  but  my  error  was  partly  caused 
by  the  impression  which  the  above  description  of  his  "  most  invaluable 
friend"  made  on  me,  when  I  first  read  it. 

Much  else  that  I  meant  to  correct,  or  promised  to  explain,  in  this  lect- 
ure, must  be  deferred  to  the  Appendix  ;  the  superiority  of  the  Tuscan 
to  the  Greek  Aphrodite  I  may  perhaps,  even  at  lasf,  leave  the  reader  to 
admit  or  deny  as  he  pleases,  having  more  important  matters  of  debate 
on  hand.  But  as  I  mean  only  to  play  with  Proserpina  during  the  spring, 
I  will  here  briefly  anticipate  a  statement  I  mean  in  the  Appendix  to  en- 
force, namely,  of  the  extreme  value  of  coloured  copies  by  hand,  or 
paintings  whose  excellence  greatly  consists  in  colour,  as  auxiliary  to  en- 


FLORENTINE  SCHOOLS  OF  ENG HAVING,  381 


crowned  with  a  most  lively  and  cheerful  disposition,  altogether 
made  him  appear  to  me  as  one  of  the  best  of  characters.  In 
his  workshop  I  often  spent  my  winter  evenings.  This  was 
also  the  case  with  a  number  of  young  men  who  might  be  con- 
sidered as  his  pupils  ;  many  of  whom,  I  have  no  doubt,  he  di- 
rected into  the  paths  of  truth  and  integrity,  and  who  revered 
his  memory  through  life.  He  rose  early  to  work,  lay  down 
when  he  felt  weary,  and  rose  again  when  refreshed.  His  diet 
was  of  the  simplest  kind  ;  and  he  ate  when  hungry,  and  drank 
when  dry,  without  paying  regard  to  meal-times.  By  steadily 
pursuing  this  mode  of  life  he  was  enabled  to  accumulate  sums 
of  money — from  ten  to  thirty  pounds.  This  enabled  him  to 
get  books,  of  an  entertaining  and  moral  tendency,  printed  and 
circulated  at  a  cheap  rate.  His  great  object  was,  by  every 
possible  means,  to  promote  honourable  feelings  in  the  minds 
of  youth,  and  to  prepare  them  for  becoming  good  members  of 
society.  I  have  often  discovered  that  he  did  not  overlook  in- 
genious mechanics,  whose  misfortunes — perhaps  mismanage- 
ment— had  led  them  to  a  lodging  in  Newgate.  To  these  he 
directed  his  compassionate  eye,  and  for  the  deserving  (in  his 
estimation),  he  paid  their  debt,  and  set  them  at  liberty.  He 
felt  hurt  at  seeing  the  hands  of  an  ingenious  man  tied  up  in 

gravings  of  tliem.  The  prices  now  given  without  hesitation  for  nearly 
worthless  original  drawings  by  first-rate  artists,  would  obtain  for  the 
misguided  buyers,  in  something  like  a  proportion  of  ten  to  one,  most 
precious  copies  of  drawings  which  can  only  be  represented  at  all  in  en- 
graving by  entire  alteration  of  their  treatment,  and  abandonment  of 
their  finest  purposes.  I  feel  this  so  strongly  that  I  have  given  my  best 
attention,  during  upwards  of  ten  years,  to  train  a  copyist  to  perfect  fidel- 
ity in  rendering  the  work  of  Turner ;  and  having  now  succeeded  in  en- 
abling him  to  produce  facsimiles  so  close  as  to  look  like  replicas,  fac- 
similies  which  I  must  sign  with  my  own  name  and  his,  in  the  very  work 
of  them,  to  prevent  their  being  sold  for  real  Turner  vignettes,  I  can  ob- 
tain no  custom  for  him,  and  am  obliged  to  leave  him  to  make  his  bread 
by  any  power  of  captivation  his  original  sketches  may  possess  in  the 
eyes  of  a  public  which  maintains  a  nation  of  copyists  in  Rome,  but  is 
content  with  black  and  white  renderings  of  great  English  art ;  though 
there  is  scarcely  one  cultivated  English  gentleman  or  lady  who  has  not 
been  twenty  times  in  the  Vatican,  for  once  that  they  have  been  in  the 
National  Gallery. 


382 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


prison,  where  they  were  of  no  use  either  to' himself  or  to  the 
community.  This  worthy  man  had  been  educated  for  a  priest ; 
but  he  would  say  to  me,  'Of  a  "  trouth,"  Thomas,  I  did  not 
like  their  ways.'  So  he  gave  up  the  thoughts  of  being  a  priest, 
and  bent  his  way  from  Aberdeen  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  en- 
gaged himself  to  Allan  Bamsay,  the  poet,  then  a  bookseller  at 
the  latter  place,  in  whose  service  he  was  both  shopman  and 
bookbinder.  From  Edinburgh  he  came  to  Newcastle.  Gil- 
bert had  had  a  liberal  education  bestowed  upon  him.  He  had 
read  a  great  deal,  and  had  reflected  upon  what  he  had  read. 
This,  with  his  retentive  memory,  enabled  him  to  be  a  pleasant 
and  communicative  companion.  I  lived  in  habits  of  intimacy 
with  him  to  the  end  of  his  life  ;  and,  when  he  died,  I,  with 
others  of  his  friends,  attended  his  remains  to  the  grave  at 
the  Ballast  Hills." 

And  what  graving  on  the  sacred  cliffs  of  Egypt  ever  hon- 
oured them,  as  that  grass-dimmed  furrow  does  the  mounds  of 
our  Northern  land  ? 


NOTES. 


I.  The  following  letter,  from  one  of  my  most  faithful  read- 
ers, corrects  an  important  piece  of  misinterpretation  in  the 
text.  The  waving  of  the  reins  must  be  only  in  sign  of  the 
fluctuation  of  heat  round  the  Sun's  own  chariot : — 

"  Spring  Field,  Ambleside, 

' <  February  11,  1875. 

"Dear  Mr.  Buskin, — Your  fifth  lecture  on  Engraving  I 
have  to  hand. 

"Sandro  intended  those  wavy  lines  meeting  under  the 
Sun's  right  *  hand,  (Plate  V.)  primarily,  no  doubt,  to  represent 
the  four  ends  of  the  four  reins  dangling  from  the  Sun's  hand. 
The  flames  and  rays  are  seen  to  continue  to  radiate  from  the 
platform  of  the  chariot  between  and  beyond  these  ends  of 
the  reins,  and  over  the  knee.  He  may  have  wanted  to  ac- 
knowledge that  the  warmth  of  the  earth  was  Apollo's,  by  mak- 
ing these  ends  of  the  reins  spread  out  separately  and  wave, 
and  thereby  enclose  a  form  like  a  flame.    But  I  cannot  think  it. 

"  Believe  me, 

"  Ever  yours  truly, 

Chas.  Wm.  Smith." 

II.  I  meant  to  keep  labyrinthine  matters  for  my  Appendix ; 
but  the  following  most  useful  byewords  from  Mr.  Tyrrwhitt 
had  better  be  read  at  once  : — 

"  In  the  matter  of  Cretan  Labyrinth,  as  connected  by  Vir- 

*  li  Would  not  the  design  have  looked  better,  to  us,  on  the  plate  than 
on  the  print  ?  On  the  plate,  the  reins  would  be  in  the  left  hand  ;  and 
the  whole  movement  be  from  the  left  to  the  right  ?  The  two  different 
forms  that  the  radiance  takes  would  symbolize  respectively  heat  and 
light,  would  they  not  ? 


384 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


gil  with  the  Lucius  Trojse,  or  equestrian  game  of  winding  and 
turning,  continued  in  England  from  twelfth  century  ;  and 
having  for  last  relic  the  maze  *  called  '  Troy  Town/  at  Troy 
farm,  near  Somerton,  Oxfordshire,  which  itself  resembles  the 
circular  labyrinth  on  a  coin  of  Cnossus  in  ' Fors  Clavigera.' 

"The  connecting  quotation  from  Virg.,  iEn.,  v.,  588,  is  as 
follows : 

*  Ut  quond  am  Greta  fertur  Labyrinthus  in  alta 
Parietibus  textum  caecis  iter,  ancipitemque 
Mille  viis  habuisse  dolum,  qua  sign  a  sequendi 
Palleret  indeprensus  et  inremeabilis  error. 
Hand  alio  Teucriin  nati  vestigia  cursu 
Impediunt,  texuntque  fagas  et  proelia  ludo, 
Delpliinum  similes.'  M 

Labyrinth  of  Ariadne,  as  cut  on  the  Downs  by  shepherds 
from  time  immemorial, — 

Shakspeare,  \  Midsummer  Night's  Dream/  Act  ii.  sc.  2  : 

u  Oberon.    The  nine-men's  morris  f  is  filled  up  with  mud ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green 
By  lack  of  tread  are  undistinguishable." 

The  following  passage,  'Merchant  of  Venice/  Act  iii.,  sc.  2, 
confuses  (to  all  appearance)  the  Athenian  tribute  to  Crete, 
with  the  story  of  Hesione  :  and  may  point  to  general  con- 
fusion in  the  Elizabethan  mind  about  the  myths : 

"  Portia  with  much  more  love 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  reduce 
The  virgin-tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea  monster."  \ 

Theseus  is  the  Attic  Hercules,  however ;  and  Troy  may 
have  been  a  sort  of  house  of  call  for  mythical  monsters,  in  the 
view  of  midland  shepherds. 

*  Strutt,  pp.  97-8,  ed.  1801. 

f  Explained  as  "  a  game  still  played  by  the  shepherds,  cowkeepers," 
etc. ,  in  the  midland  counties. 
\  See  Iliad,  20,  145. 


Qmm%£ OSiGMDAOESICNp r r  ^ 
£CH£  CHOKFvWGl  TVTTI  IKOSTBI IBRORC 

OKStODIA;J>£  OIAKCmCl  CHOX! 
A5CKOLTAVNK)CHO  £L  NOSTR-OA/VvA  ?x 
EVIEHI J  R£OGt  NOT  OKI  AUISS 


Plate  XL— Obediente  Domino  voci  hominis. 


APPENDIX. 


ARTICLE  I. 

NOTES  ON  THE  PRESENT  STATE  OE  ENGRAVING-  IN  ENGLAND. 

I  have  long  deferred  the  completion  of  this  book,  because  I 
had  hoped  to  find  time  to  show,  in  some  fulness,  the  grounds 
for  my  conviction  that  engraving,  and  the  study  of  it,  since 
the  development  of  the  modern  finished  school,  have  been 
ruinous  to  European  knowledge  of  art.  Bat  I  am  more  and 
more  busied  in  what  I  believe  to  be  better  work,  and  can  only 
with  extreme  brevity  state  here  the  conclusions  of  many  years* 
thought. 

These,  in  several  important  particulars,  have  been  curiously 
enforced  on  me  by  the  carelessness  shown  by  the  picture 
dealers  about  the  copies  from  Turner  which  it  has  cost  Mr. 
Ward  and  me  *  fifteen  years  of  study  together  to  enable  our- 
selves to  make.  <c  They  are  only  copies/'  say  they, — "  nobody 
will  look  at  them." 

It  never  seems  to  occur  even  to  the  most  intelligent  persons 
that  an  engraving  also  is  f  only  a  copy,'  and  a  copy  done  with 
refusal  of  colour,  and  with  disadvantage  of  means  in  render- 
ing shade.  But  just  because  this  utterly  inferior  copy  can  be 
reduplicated,  and  introduces  a  different  kind  of  skill  in 
another  material,  people  are  content  to  lose  all  the  composi- 
tion, and  all  the  charm,  of  the  original, — so  far  as  these  de- 
pend on  the  chief  gift  of  a  painter, — colour  ;  while  they  are 
gradually  misled  into  attributing  to  the  painter  himself  quali- 
ties impertinently  added  by  the  engraver  to  make  his  plate 
popular  :  and,  which  is  far  worse,  they  are  as  gradually  and 
*  See  note  to  the  close  of  this  article,  p.  152. 


386 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


subtly  prevented  from  looking,  in  the  original,  for  the  quali- 
ties which  engraving  could  never  render.  Further,  it  con- 
tinually happens  that  the  very  best  colour-compositions  en- 
grave worst ;  for  they  often  extend  colours  over  great  spaces 
at  equal  pitch,  and  the  green  is  as  dark  as  the  red,  and  the. 
blue  as  the  brown  ;  so  that  the  engraver  can  only  distinguish 
them  by  lines  in  different  directions,  and  his  plate  becomes  a 
vague  and  dead  mass  of  neutral  tint ;  but  a  bad  and  forced 
piece  of  colour,  or  a  piece  of  work  of  the  Bolognese  school, 
which  is  everywhere  black  in  the  shadows,  and  colourless  in 
the  lights,  will  engrave  with  great  ease,  and  appear  spirited 
and  forcible.  Hence  engravers,  as  a  rule,  are  interested  in 
reproducing  the  work  of  the  worst  schools  of  painting. 

Also,  the  idea  that  the  merit  of  an  engraving  consisted  in 
light  and  shade,  has  prevented  the  modern  masters  from  even 
attempting  to  render  works  dependent  mainly  on  outline  and 
expression  ;  like  the  early  frescoes,  which  should  indeed  have 
been  the  objects  of  their  most  attentive  and  continual  skill : 
for  outline  and  expression  are  entirely  within  the  scope  of  en- 
graving ;  and  the  scripture  histories  of  an  aisle  of  a  cloister 
might  have  been  engraved  to  perfection,  with  little  more  pains 
than  are  given  by  ordinary  workmen  to  round  a  limb  by  Cor- 
reggio,  or  imitate  the  texture  of  a  dress  by  Sir  Joshua, — and 
both,  at  last,  inadequately. 

I  will  not  lose  more  time  in  asserting  or  lamenting  the  mis- 
chief arising  out  of  the  existing  system  :  but  will  rapidly  state 
what  the  public  should  now  ask  for. 

1.  Exquisitely  careful  engraved  outlines  of  all  remaining 
frescoes  of  the  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries 
in  Italy,  with  so  much  pale  tinting  as  may  be  explanatory  of 
their  main  masses  ;  and  with  the  local  darks  and  local  lights 
brilliantly  relieved.  The  Arundel  Society  have  published 
some  meritorious  plates  of  this  kind  from  Angelico, — not, 
however,  paying  respect  enough  to  the  local  colours,  but  con- 
ventionalizing the  whole  too  much  into  outline. 

2.  Finished  small  plates  for  book  illustration.  The  cheap 
woodcutting  and  etching  of  popular  illustrated  books  have 
been  endlessly  mischievous  to  public  taste  :  they  first  obtained 


APPENDIX. 


387 


their  power  in  a  general  reaction  of  the  public  mind  from  the 
insipidity  of  the  lower  school  of  line  engraving,  brought  on  if 
by  servile  persistence  in  hack  work  for  ignorant  publishers 
The  last  dregs  of  it  may  still  be  seen  in  the  sentimental  land- 
scapes engraved  for  cheap  ladies'  pocket-books.  But  the 
•  woodcut  can  never,  educationally,  take  the  place  of  serene  and 
accomplished  line  engraving  ;  and  the  training  of  young  ar- 
tists in  whom  the  gift  of  delineation  prevails  over  their  sense 
of  colour,  to  the  production  of  scholarly,  but  small  plates,* 
with  their  utmost  honour  of  skill,  would  give  a  hitherto  un- 
conceived  dignity  to  the  character  and  range  of  our  popular 
literature. 

3.  Vigorous  mezzotints  from  pictures  of  the  great  masters, 
which  originally  present  noble  contrasts  of  light  and  shade. 
Many  Venetian  works  are  magnificent  in  this  character. 

4.  Original  design  by  painters  themselves,  decisively  en- 
graved in  few  lines — (not  etched) ;  and  with  such  insistance  by 
dotted  work  on  the  main  contours  as  we  have  seen  in  the  ex- 
amples given  from  Italian  engraving. 

5.  On  the  other  hand,  the  men  whose  quiet  patience  and 
exquisite  manual  dexterity  are  at  present  employed  in  pro- 
ducing large  and  costly  plates,  such  as  that  of  the  Belle  Jar- 
diniere de  Florence,  by  M.  Boucher  Desnoyers,  should  be 
entirely  released  from  their  servile  toil,  and  employed  ex- 
clusively in  producing  coloured  copies,  or  light  drawings, 
from  the  original  work.  The  same  number  of  hours  of  la- 
bour, applied  with  the  like  conscientious  skill,  would  multiply 
precious  likenesses  of  the  real  picture,  full  of  subtle  veracities 
which  no  steel  line  could  approach,  and  conveying,  to  thou- 
sands, true  knowledge  and  unaffected  enjoyment  of  painting  ; 
while  the  finished  plate  lies  uncared  for  in  the  portfolio  of 
the  virtuoso,  serving  only,  so  far  as  it  is  seen  in  the  print- 
seller's  window  by  the  people,  to  make  them  think  that  sacred 
painting  must  always  be  dull,  and  unnatural. 

I  have  named  the  above  engraving,  because,  for  persons 
wishing  to  study  the  present  qualities  and  methods  of  line- 
work,  it  is  a  pleasant  and  sufficient  possession,  uniting  every 
variety  of  texture  with  great  serenity  of  unforced  effect,  and 


388 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


exhibiting  every  possible  artifice  and  achievement  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  even  and  rugged,  or  of  close  and  open  line  ;  arti- 
fices for  which, — while  I  must  yet  once  more  and  emphati- 
cally repeat  that  they  are  illegitimate,  and  could  not  be  pract- 
ised in  a  revived  school  of  classic  art, — I  would  fain  secure 
the  reader's  reverent  admiration,  under  the  conditions  exacted 
by  the  school  to  which  they  belong.  Let  him  endeavour,  with 
the  finest  point  of  pen  or  pencil  he  can  obtain,  to  imitate  the 
*  profile  of  this  Madonna  in  its  relief  against  the  grey  back- 
ground of  the  water  surface  ;  let  him  examine,  through  a  good 
lens,  the  way  in  which  the  lines  of  the  background  are  ended 
in  a  lance-point  as  they  approach  it ;  the  exact  equality  of  depth 
of  shade  being  restored  by  inserted  dots,  which  prepare  for 
the  transition  to  the  manner  of  shade  adopted  in  the  flesh  • 
then  let  him  endeavour  to  trace  with  his  own  hand  some  of  the 
curved  lines  at  the  edge  of  the  eyelid,  or  in  the  rounding  of 
the  lip  ;  or  if  these  be  too  impossible,  even  a  few  of  the  quiet 
undulations  which  gradate  the  folds  of  the  hood  behind  the 
hair  ;  and  he  will,  I  trust,  begin  to  comprehend  the  range  of 
delightful  work  which  would  be  within  the  reach  of  such  an 
artist,  employed  with  more  tractable  material  on  more  extend- 
ed subject. 

If,  indeed,  the  present  system  were  capable  of  influencing 
the  mass  of  the  people,  and  enforcing  among  them  the  subtle 
attention  necessary  to  appreciate  it,  something  might  be  plead- 
ed in  defence  of  its  severity.  But  all  these  plates  are  entirely 
above  the  means  of  the  lower  middle  classes,  and  perhaps  not 
one  reader  in  a  hundred  can  possess  himself,  for  the  study  I 
ask  of  him,  even  of  the  plate  to  which  I  have  just  referred. 
What,  in  the  stead  of  such,  he  can  and  does  possess,  let  him 
consider, — and,  if  possible,  just  after  examining  the  noble 
qualities  of  this  conscientious  engraving. 

Take  up,  for  an  average  specimen  of  modern  illustrated 
works,  the  volume  of  Dickens's  '  Master  Humphrey's  Clock/ 
containing  -  Barnaby  Budge.' 

You  have  in  that  book  an  entirely  profitless  and  monstrous 
story,  in  which  the  principal  characters  are  a  coxcomb,  an  idiot, 
a  madman,  a  savage  blackguard,  a  foolish  tavern -keeper,  a  mean 


APPENDIX. 


389 


old  maid,  and  a  conceited  apprentice, — mixed  up  with  a  cer- 
tain quantity  of  ordinary  operatic  pastoral  stuff,  about  a  pretty 
Dolly  in  ribands,  a  lover  with  a  wooden  leg,  and  an  heroic 
locksmith.  For  these  latter,  the  only  elements  of  good,  or 
life,  in  the  filthy  mass  of  the  story,*  observe  that  the  author 
must  filch  the  wreck  of  those  old  times  of  which  we  fiercely 
and  frantically  destroy  every  living  vestige,  whenever  it  is  pos- 
sible. You  cannot  have  your  Doily  Varden  brought  up  behind 
the  counter  of  a  railway  station  ;  nor  your  jolly  locksmith 
trained  at  a  Birmingham  brass-foundry.  And  of  these  mate- 
vials,  observe  that  you  can  only  have  the  ugly  ones  illustrated. 
The  cheap  popular  art  cannot  draw  for  you  beauty,  sense,  or 
honesty  ;  and  for  Dolly  Varden,  or  the  locksmith,  you  will  look 
through  the  vignettes  in  vain.  But  every  species  of  distorted 
folly  and  vice, — the  idiot,  the  blackguard,  the  coxcomb,  the 
paltry  fool,  the  degraded  woman, — are  pictured  for  your  hon- 
orable pleasure  in  every  page,  with  clumsy  caricature,  strug- 
gling to  render  its  dulness  tolerable  by  insisting  on  defect, — 
if  perchance  a  penny  or  two  more  may  be  coined  out  of  the 
Cockney  reader's  itch  for  loathsomeness. 

Or  take  up,  for  instance  of  higher  effort,  the  e  Cornhill  Mag- 
azine '  for  this  month,  July,  1876.  It  has  a  vignette  of  Venice 
for  an  illuminated  letter.  That  is  what  your  decorative  art 
has  become,  by  help  of  Kensington  !  The  letter  to  be  pro- 
duced is  a  T.  There  is  a  gondola  in  the  front  of  the  design, 
with  the  canopy  slipped  back  to  the  stern  like  a  saddle  over  a 
horsed  tail.  There  is  another  in  the  middle  distance,  all  gone 
to  seed  at  the  prow,  with  its  gondolier  emaciated  into  an  oar, 
at  the  stern  ;  then  there  is  a  Church  of  the  Salute,  and  a  Du- 
cal palace, — in  which  I  beg  you  to  observe  all  the  felicity  and 
dexterity  of  modern  cheap  engraving  ;  finally,  over  the  Ducal 
palace  there  is  something,  I  know  not  in  the  least  what  meant 
for,  like  an  umbrella  dropping  out  of  a  balloon,  which  is  the 
ornamental  letter  T.  Opposite  this  ornamental  design,  there 
is  an  engraving  of  two  young  ladies  and  a  parasol,  between 

*  The  raven,  however,  like  all  Dickens's  animals,  is  perfect ;  and  lam 
the  more  angry  with  the  rest  because  I  have  every  now  and  then  toopeu 
the  book  to  look  for  him. 


390 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


two  trunks  of  trees.  The  white  face  and  black  feet  of  tho 
principal  young  lady,  being  the  points  of  the  design,  are  done 
with  as  much  care, — not  with  as  much  dexterity, — as  an  or- 
dinary sketch  of  Dumourier's  in  Punch.  The  young  lady's 
dress,  the  next  attraction,  is  done  in  cheap  white  and  black 
cutting,  with  considerably  less  skill  than  that  of  any  ordinary 
tailor's  or  milliner's  shop -book  pattern  drawing.  For  the 
other  young  lady,  and  the  landscape,  take  your  magnifying 
glass,  and  look  at  the  hacked  wood  that  forms  the  entire 
shaded  surface — one  mass  of  idiotic  scrabble,  without  the  re- 
motest attempt  to  express  a  single  leaf,  flower,  or  clod  of 
earth.  It  is  such  landscape  as  the  public  sees  out  of  its  rail- 
road window  at  sixty  miles  of  it  in  the  hour, — and  good 
enough  for  such  a  public. 

Then  turn  to  the  last — the  poetical  plate,  p.  122  :  ■"  Lifts 
her — lays  her  down  with  care/'  Look  at  the  gentleman  with 
the  spade,  promoting  the  advance,  over  a  hillock  of  hay,  of 
the  reposing  figure  in  the  black-sided  tub.  Take  your  mag- 
nifying glass  to  that,  and  look  what  a  dainty  female  arm  and 
hand  your  modern  scientific  and  anatomical  schools  of  art 
have  provided  you  with  !  Look  at  the  tender  horizontal  flux 
of  the  sea  round  the  promontory  point  above.  Look  at  the 
tender  engraving  of  the  linear  light  on  the  divine  horizon, 
above  the  ravenous  sea-gull.  Here  is  Development  and  Prog- 
ress for  you,  from  the  days  of  Perugino's  horizon,  and  Dante's 
daybreaks  !    Truly,  here  it  seems 

uSi  che  le  bianclie  e  le  vermiglie  guance 
Per  troppa  etate  divenivan  ranee." 

I  have  chosen  no  gross  or  mean  instances  of  modern  work. 
It  is  one  of  the  saddest  points  connected  with  the  matter  that 
the  designer  of  this  last  plate  is  a  person  of  consummate  art 
faculty,  but  bound  to  the  wheel  of  the  modern  Juggernaut, 
and  broken  on  it.  These  woodcuts,  for  '  Barnaby  Rudge '  and 
the  '  Cornhill  Magazine,'  are  favourably  representative  of  the 
entire  illustrative  art  industry  of  the  modern  press, — industry 
enslaved  to  the  ghastly  service  of  catching  the  last  gleams  in 
the  glued  eyes  of  the  daily  more  bestial  English  mob, — rails 


APPENDIX. 


391 


road  born  and  bred,  which  drags  itself  about  the  black  world 
it  has  withered  under  its  breath,  in  one  eternal  grind  and 
shriek, — gobbling, — staring, — chattering,  —  giggling, — tram- 
pling out  every  vestige  of  national  honour  and  domestic  peace, 
wherever  it  sets  the  staggering  hoof  of  it  ;  incapable  of  read- 
ing, of  hearing,  of  flunking,  of  looking, — capable  only  of 
greed  for  money,  lust  for  food,  pride  of  dress,  and  the  pru- 
rient itch  of  momentary  curiosity  for  the  politics  last  an- 
nounced by  the  newsmonger,  and  the  religion  last  rolled  by 
the  chemist  into  electuary  for  the  dead. 

In  the  miserably  competitive  labour  of  finding  new  stimu- 
lus for  the  appetite — daily  more  gross — of  this  tyrannous  mob, 
we  may  count  as  lost,  beyond  any  hope,  the  artists  who  are 
dull,  docile,  or  distressed  enough  to  submit  to  its  demands  ; 
and  we  may  count  the  dull  and  the  distressed  by  myriads  ; — 
and  among  the  docile,  many  of  the  best  intellects  we  possess. 
The  few  who  have  sense  and  strength  to  assert  their  own  place 
and  supremacy,  are  driven  into  discouraged  disease  by  their 
isolation,  like  Turner  and  Blake  ;  the  one  abandoning  the  de- 
sign of  his  c  Liber  Studiorum \  after  imperfectly  and  sadly, 
against  total  public  neglect,  carrying  it  forward  to  what  it  is, 
— monumental,  nevertheless,  in  landscape  engraving ;  the 
other  producing,  with  one  only  majestic  series  of  designs  from 
the  book  of  Job,  nothing  for  his  life's  work  but  coarsely  iri- 
descent sketches  of  enigmatic  dream. 

And,  for  total  result  of  our  English  engraving  industry  dur- 
ing the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years,  I  find  that  practically  at 
this  moment  I  cannot  get  a  single  piece  of  true,  sweet,  and 
comprehensible  art,  to  place  for  instruction  in  any  children's 
school !  I  can  get,  for  ten  pounds  apiece,  well-engraved  por- 
traits of  Sir  Joshua's  beauties  showing  graceful  limbs  through 
flowery  draperies  ;  I  can  get — dirt-cheap — any  quantity  of 
Dutch  flats,  ditches,  and  hedges,  enlivened  by  cows  chewing 
the  cud,  and  dogs  behaving  indecently  ;  I  can  get  heaps  upon 
heaps  of  temples,  and  forums,  and  altars,  arranged  as  for 
academical  competition,  round  seaports,  with  curled-up  ships 
that  only  touch  the  water  with  the  middle  of  their  bottoms. 
I  can  get,  at  the  price  of  lumber,  any  quantity  of  British 


392 


ARIADNE  FL0RENT1NA. 


squires  flourishing  whips  and  falling  over  hurdles ;  and,  in 
suburban  shops,  a  dolorous  variety  of  widowed  mothers  nurs- 
ing babies  in  a  high  light,  with  the  Bible  on  a  table,  and 
baby's  shoes  on  a  chair.  Also,  of  cheap  prints,  painted  red 
and  blue,  of  Christ  blessing  little  children,  of  Joseph  and  his 
brethren,  the  infant  Samuel,  or  Daniel' in  the  lion's  den,  the 
supply  is  ample  enough  to  make  every  child  in  these  islands 
think  of  the  Bible  as  a  somewhat  dull  story-book,  allowed  on 
Sunday  ; — but  of  trained,  wise,  and  worthy  art,  applied  to 
gentle  purposes  of  instruction,  no  single  example  can  be  found 
in  the  shops  of  the  British  printseller  or  bookseller.  And 
after  every  dilettante  tongue  in  European  society  has  filled 
drawing-room  and  academy  alike  with  idle  clatter  concerning 
the  divinity  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  for  these  last 
hundred  years,  I  cannot  at  this  instant,  for  the  first  school 
which  I  have  some  power  of  organizing  under  St.  George's 
laws,  get  a  good  print  of  Raphael's  Madonna  of  the  tribune, 
or  an  ordinarily  intelligible  view  of  the  side  and  dome  of  St. 
Peter's ! 

And  there  are  simply  no  words  for  the  mixed  absurdity  and 
wickedness  of  the  present  popular  demand  for  art,  as  shown 
by  its  supply  in  our  thoroughfares.  Abroad,  in  the  shops  of 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  brightest  and  most  central  of  Parisian 
streets,  the  putrescent  remnant  of  what  was  once  Catholicism 
promotes  its  poor  gilded  pedlars'  ware  of  nativity  and  cruci- 
fixion into  such  honourable  corners  as  it  can  find  among  the 
more  costly  and  studious  illuminations  of  the  brothel :  and 
although,  in  Pall  Mall,  and  the  Strand,  the  large -margined 
Landseer, — Stanfield, — or  Turner-proofs,  in  a  few  stately  win- 
dows, still  represent,  uncared-for  by  the  people,  or  inaccessible 
to  them,  the  power  of  an  English  school  now  wholly  perished, 
— these  are  too  surely  superseded,  in  the  windows  that  stop 
the  crowd,  by  the  thrilling  attraction  with  which  Dore,  Gerome, 
and  Tadema  have  invested  the  gambling  table,  the  duelling 
ground,  and  the  arena  ;  or  by  the  more  material  and  almost  tan- 
gible truth  with  which  the  apothecary-artist  stereographs  the 
stripped  actress,  and  the  railway  mound. 

Under  these  conditions,  as  I  have  now  repeatedly  asserted, 


APPENDIX. 


398 


no  professorship,  nor  school,  of  art  can  be  of  the  least  use  to 
the  general  public.  No  race  can  understand  a  visionary  land- 
scape, which  blasts  its  real  mountains  into  ruin,  and  blackens 
its  river-beds  with  foam  of  poison.  Nor  is  it  of  the  least  use 
to  exhibit  ideal  Diana  at  Kensington,  while  substantial  Phryne 
may  be  worshipped  in  the  Strand.  The  only  recovery  of  our 
art-power  possible, — nay,  when  once  we  know  the  full  mean- 
ing of  it,  the  only  one  desirable, — must  result  from  the  purifi- 
cation of  the  nation's  heart,  and  chastisement  of  its  life  :  utterly 
hopeless  now,  for  our  adult  population,  or  in  our  large  cities, 
and  their  neighbourhood.  But,  so  far  as  any  of  the  sacred 
influence  of  former  design  can  be  brought  to  bear  on  the 
minds  of  the  young,  and  so  far  as,  in  rural  districts,  the  first 
elements  of  scholarly  education  can  be  made  pure,  the  founda- 
tion of  a  new  dynasty  of  thought  may  be  slowly  laid.  I  was 
strangely  impressed  by  the  effect  produced  in  a  provincial 
seaport  school  for  children,  chiefly  of  fishermen's  families,  by 
the  gift  of  a  little  coloured  drawing  of  a  single  figure  from 
the  Paradise  of  Angelico  in  the  Academia  of  Florence.  The 
drawing  was  wretched  enough  seen  beside  the  original :  I  had 
only  bought  it  from  the  poor  Italian  copyist  for  charity  ;  but, 
to  the  children,  it  was  like  an  actual  glimpse  of  heaven ;  they 
rejoiced  in  it  with  pure  joy,  and  their  mistress  thanked  me 
for  it  more  than  if  I  had  sent  her  a  whole  library  of  good 
books.  Of  such  copies,  the  grace-giving  industry  of  young- 
girls,  now  worse  than  lost  in  the  spurious  charities  of  the  ba- 
zaar, or  selfish  ornamentations  of  the  drawing-room,  might,  in 
a  year's  time,  provide  enough  for  every  dame-school  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  a  year's  honest  work  of  the  engravers  employed  on 
our  base  novels,  might  represent  to  our  advanced  students 
every  frescoed  legend  of  philosophy  and  morality  extant  in 
Christendom. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  no  purpose,  in  what  remains  to 
me  of  opportunity,  either  at  Oxford  or  elsewhere,  to  address 
any  farther  course  of  instruction  towards  the  development  of 
existing  schools.  After  seeing  the  stream  of  the  Teviot  as 
black  as  ink,  and  a  putrid  carcase  of  a  sheep  lying  in  the  dry 
channel  of  the  Jed,  under  Jedburgh  Abbey,  (the  entire  strength 


394 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


of  the  summer  stream  being  taken  away  to  supply  a  single 
mill,)  I  know,  finally,  what  value  the  British  mind  sets  on  the 
'  beauties  of  nature,'  and  shall  attempt  no  farther  the  excite- 
ment of  its  enthusiasm  in  that  direction.  I  shall  indeed 
endeavour  to  carry  out,  with  Mr.  Ward's  help,  my  twenty 
year's  held  purpose  of  making  the  real  character  of  Turner's 
work  known,  to  the  persons  who,  formerly  interested  by  the 
engravings  from  him,  imagined  half  the  merit  was  of  the  en- 
graver's giving.  But  I  know  perfectly  that  to  the  general 
people,  trained  in  the  midst  of  the  ugliest  objects  that  vice  can 
design,  in  houses,  mills,  and  machinery,  all  beautiful  form 
and  colour  is  as  invisible  as  the  seventh  heaven.  It  is  not  a 
question  of  appreciation  at  all ;  the  thing  is  physically  invisi- 
ble to  them,  as  human  speech  is  inaudible  during  a  steam 
whistle. 

And  I  shall  also  use  all  the  strength  I  have  to  convince  those, 
among  our  artists  of  the  second  order,  who  are  wise  and  mod- 
est enough  not  to  think  themselves  the  matches  of  Turner  or 
Michael  Angelo,  that  in  the  present  state  of  art  they  only 
waste  their  powers  in  endeavouring  to  produce  original  pict- 
ures of  human  form  or  passion.  Modern  aristocratic  life  is 
too  vulgar,  and  modern  peasant  life  too  unhappy,  to  furnish 
subjects  of  noble  study ;  while,  even  were  it  otherwise,  the 
multiplication  of  designs  by  painters  of  second-rate  power  is 
no  more  desirable  than  the  writing  of  music  by  inferior  com- 
posers. They  may,  with  far  greater  personal  happiness,  and 
incalculably  greater  advantage  to  others,  devote  themselves  to 
the  affectionate  and  sensitive  copying  of  the  works  of  men  of 
just  renown.  The  dignity  of  this  self-sacrifice  would  soon  be 
acknowledged  with  sincere  respect,  for  copies  produced  by 
men  working  with  such  motive  would  differ  no  less  from  the 
common  trade-article  of  the  galleries  than  the  rendering  of 
music  by  an  enthusiastic  and  highly-trained  executant  differs 
from  the  grinding  of  a  street  organ.  And  the  change  in  the 
tone  of  the  public  feeling,  produced  by  familiarity  with  such 
work,  would  soon  be  no  less  great  than  in  their  musical  en- 
joyment, if  having  been  accustomed  only  to  hear  black  Christy s, 
blind  fiddlers,  and  hoarse  beggars  scrape  or  howl  about  their 


APPENDIX. 


395 


streets,  they  were  permitted  daily  audience  of  faithful  and 
gentle  orchestral  rendering  of  the  work  of  the  highest  classi- 
cal masters. 

I  have  not,  until  very  lately,  rightly  appreciated  the  results 
of  the  labour  of  the  Arundel  Society  in  this  direction.  Al- 
though, from  the  beginning,  I  have  been  honoured  in  being  a 
member  of  its  council,  my  action  has  been  hitherto  rather  of 
check  than  help,  because  I  thought  more  of  the  differences 
between  our  copies  and  the  great  originals,  than  of  their  un- 
questionable superiority  to  anything  the  public  could  other- 
wise obtain. 

I  was  practically  convinced  of  their  extreme  value  only  this 
last  winter,  by  staying  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  which  the 
Arundel  engravings  were  the  principal  decoration  ;  and  where 
I  learned  more  of  Masaccio  from  the  Arundel  copy  of  the  con- 
test with  Simon  Magus,  than  in  the  Brancacci  chapel  itself  ; 
for  the  daily  companionship  with  the  engraving  taught  me 
subtleties  in  its  composition  which  had  escaped  mo  in  the 
multitudinous  interest  of  visits  to  the  actual  fresco. 

But  the  work  of  the  Society  has  been  sorely  hindered 
hitherto,  because  it  has  had  at  command  only  the  skill  of 
copyists  trained  in  foreign  schools  of  colour,  and  accustomed 
to  meet  no  more  accurate  requisitions  than  those  of  the  fashion- 
able traveller.  I  have  always  hoped  for,  and  trust  at  last  to 
obtain,  co-operation  with  our  too  mildly  laborious  copyists,  of 
English  artists  possessing  more  brilliant  colour  faculty  ;  and 
the  permission  of  our  subscribers  to  secure  for  them  the  great 
ruins  of  the  noble  past,  undesecrated  by  the  trim,  but  treacher- 
ous, plastering  of  modern  emendation. 

Finally,  I  hope  to  direct  some  of  the  antiquarian  energy 
often  to  be  found  remaining,  even  when  love  of  the  picturesque 
has  passed  away,  to  encourage  the  accurate  delineation  and 
engraving  of  historical  monuments,  as  a  direct  function  of  our 
schools  of  art.  All  that  I  have  generally  to  suggest  on  this 
matter  has  been  already  stated  with  sufficient  clearness  in  the 
first  of  my  inaugural  lectures  at  Oxford  :  and  my  forthcoming 
•  Elements  of  Drawing,'  will  contain  all  the  directions  I  can 
give  in  writing  as  to  methods  of  work  for  such  purpose.  The 


396 


ARIADNE  FL 0RENT1NA. 


publication  of  these  has  been  hindered,  for  at  least  a  year,  by 
the  abuses  introduced  by  the  modern  cheap  modes  of  printing 
engravings.  I  find  the  men  won't  use  any  ink  but  what 
pleases  them,  nor  print  but  with  what  pressure  pleases  them  ; 
and  if  I  can  get  the  foreman  to  attend  to  the  business,  and 
choose  the  ink  right,  the  men  change  it  the  moment  he  leaves 
the  room,  and  threaten  to  throw  up  the  job  when  they  are 
detected.  All  this,  I  have  long  known  well,  is  a  matter  of 
course,  in  the  outcome  of  modern  principles  of  trade  ;  but  it 
has  rendered  it  hitherto  impossible  for  me  to  produce  illus- 
trations, which  have  been  ready,  as  far  as  my  work  or  that  of 
my  own  assistants  is  concerned,  for  a  year  and  a  half.  Any 
one  interested  in  hearing  of  our  progress — or  arrest,  may 
write  to  my  Turner  copyist,  Mr.  Ward  :  *  and,  in  the  mean- 
time, they  can  help  my  designs  for  art  education  best  by 
making  these  Turner  copies  more  generally  known  ;  and  by 
determining,  when  they  travel,  to  spend  what  sums  they  have 
at  their  disposal,  not  in  fady  photography,  but  in  the  en- 
couragement of  any  good  water-colour  and  pencil  draughtsmen 
whom  they  find  employed  in  the  galleries  of  Europe. 


AETICLE  II. 

DETACHED  NOTES. 
I. 

On  the  series  of  Sibyl  engravings  attributed  to  Botticelli* 

Since  I  wrote  the  earlier  lectures  in  this  volume,  I  have  been 
made  more  doubtful  on  several  points  which  were  embarrass- 
ing enough  before,  by  seeing  some  better,  (so-called,)  impres- 

*  2,  Church  Terrace,  Richmond,  Surrey.  Note.  —I  have  hitherto 
permitted  Mr.  Ward  to  copy  any  Turner  drawing  he  was  asked  to  do ; 
but,  finding  there  is  a  run  upon  the  vignettes  of  Loch  Lomond  and 
Derwent,  I  have  forbidden  him  to  do  more  of  them  for  the  present,  lest 
his  work  should  get  the  least  mechanical.  The  admirable  drawings  of 
Venice,  by  my  good  assistant  Mr.  Bunney,  resident  there,  will  become 
of  more  value  to  their  purchasers  every  year,  as  the  buildings  from 


The  Coronation  in  the  Garden. 


APPENDIX. 


397 


sions  of  my  favourite  plates,  containing  light  and  shade  which 
did  not  improve  them. 

I  do  not  choose  to  waste  time  or  space  in  discussion,  till  I 
know  more  of  the  matter  ;  and  that  more  I  must  leave  to  my 
good  friend  Mr.  Eeid  of  the  British  Museum  to  find  out  for 
me ;  for  I  have  no  time  to  take  up  the  subject  myself,  but  I 
give,  for  frontispiece  to  this  Appendix,  the  engraving  of 
Joshua  referred  to  in  the  text,  which  however  beautiful  in 
thought,  is  an  example  of  the  inferior  execution  and  more 
elaborate  shade  which  puzzle  me.  But  whatever  is  said  in  the 
previous  pages  of  the  plates  chosen  for  example,  by  whomso- 
ever done,  is  absolutely  trustworthy.  Thoroughly  fine  they 
are,  in  their  existing  state,  and  exemplary  to  all  persons  and 
times.  And  of  the  rest,  in  fitting  place  I  hope  to  give  com- 
plete— or  at  least  satisfactory  account. 


n. 

On  the  three  excellent  engravers  representative  of  the  first,  mid- 
dle, and  late  schools. 

I  have  given  opposite  a  photograph,  slightly  reduced  from 
the  Durer  Madonna,  alluded  to  often  in  the  text,  as  an  exam- 
ple of  his  best  conception  of  womanhood.  It  is  very  curious 
that  Durer,  the  least  able  of  all  great  artists  to  represent 
womanhood,  should  of  late  have  been  a  very  principal  object 
of  feminine  admiration.  The  last  thing  a  woman  should  do  is 
to  write  about  art.  They  never  see  anything  in  pictures  but 
what  they  are  told,  (or  resolve  to  see  out  of  contradiction,) — 
or  the  particular  things  that  fall  in  with  their  own  feelings. 
I  saw  a  curious  piece  of  enthusiastic  writing  by  an  Edinburgh 
lady,  the  other  day,  on  the  photographs  I  had  taken  from  the 
tower  of  Giotto.  She  did  not  care  a  straw  what  Giotto  had 
meant  by  them,  declared  she  felt  it  her  duty  only  to  announce 

which  they  are  made  are  destroyed.  I  was  but  just  in  time,  working 
with  him  at  Verona,  to  catch  record  of  Fra  Giocondo's  work  in  the 
smaller  square  ;  the  most  beautiful  Renaissance  design  in  North  Italy. 


398 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


what  they  were  to  her  ;  and  wrote  two  pages  on  the  bas-relief 
of  Heracles  and  Antaeus — assuming  it  to  be  the  death  of  Abel. 

It  is  not,  however,  by  women  only  that  Durer  has  been 
over-praised.  He  stands  so  alone  in  his  own  field,  that  the 
people  who  care  much  for  him  generally  lose  the  power  of 
enjoying  anything  else  rightly  ;  and  are  continually  attribut- 
ing to  the  force  of  his  imagination  quaintnesses  w7hich  are 
merely  part  of  the  general  mannerism  of  his  day. 

The  following  notes  upon  him,  in  relation  to  two  other  ex- 
cellent engravers,  were  written  shortly  for  extempore  expan- 
sion in  lecturing.  I  give  them,  with  the  others  in  this  termi- 
nal article,  mainly  for  use  to  myself  in  future  reference  ;  but 
also  as  more  or  less  suggestive  to  the  reader,  if  he  has  taken 
up  the  subject  seriously,  and  worth,  therefore,  a  few  pages  of 
this  closing  sheet. 

The  men  I  have  named  as  representative  of  all  the  good 
ones  composing  their  school,  are  alike  resolved  their  engrav- 
ing shall  be  lovely. 

But  Botticelli,  the  ancient,  wants,  with  as  little  engraving, 
as  much  Sibyl  as  possible. 

Durer,  the  central,  wants,  with  as  much  engraving  as  possi- 
ble, anything  of  Sibyl  that  may  chance  to  be  picked  up  with 
it. 

Beaugrand,  the  modern,  wants,  as  much  Sibyl  as  possible, 
and  as  much  engraving  too. 

I  repeat— for  I  wrant  to  get  this  clear  to  you — Botticelli 
wants,  with  as  little  engraving,  as  much  Sibyl  as  possible. 
For  his  head  is  full  of  Sibyls,  and  his  heart.  He  can't  draw 
them  fast  enough  ;  one  comes,  and  another,  and  another  ;  and 
ail,  gracious  and  wonderful  and  good,  to  be  engraved  for 
ever,  if  only  he  had  a  thousand  hands  and  lives.  He  scratches 
down  one,  with  no  haste,  with  no  fault,  divinely  careful,  scru- 
pulous, patient,  but  with  as  few  lines  as  possible.  e  Another 
Sibyl — let  me  draw  another  for  heaven's  sake,  before  she  has 
burnt  all  her  books,  and  vanished/ 

Durer  is  exactly  Botticelli's  opposite.  He  is  a  workman,  to 
the  heart,  and  will  do  his  work  magnificently.  'No  mattei 
what  I  do  it  on,  so  that  my  craft  be  honourably  shown.  Any- 


APPENDIX. 


399 


thing  will  do  ;  a  Sibyl,  a  skull,  a  Madonna  and  Christ,  a  hat 
and  a  feather,  an  Adam,  an  Eve,  a  cock,  a  sparrow,  a  lion 
with  two  tails,  a  pig  with  five  legs, — anything  will  do  for  me. 
But  see  if  I  don't  show  you  what  engraving  is,  be  my  subject 
what  it  may ' ! 

Thirdly  :  Beaugrand,  I  said,  wants  as  much  Sibyl  as  possi- 
ble, and  as  much  engraving.  He  is  essentially  a  copyist,  and 
has  no  ideas  of  his  own,  but  deep  reverence  and  love  for  the 
work  of  others.  He  will  give  his  life  to  represent  another 
man's  thought.  He  will  do  his  best  with  every  spot  and  line, 
— exhibit  to  you,  if  you  will  only  look,  the  most  exquisite 
completion  of  obedient  skill ;  but  will  be  content,  if  you  will 
not  look,  to  pass  his  neglected  years  in  fruitful  peace,  and 
count  every  day  well  spent  that  has  given  softness  to  a  shadow, 
or  light  to  a  smile. 


III. 

On  Durer's  landscape,  with  reference  to  the  sentence  in  p.  112  ; 
"  I  hope  you  are  pleased." 

I  spoke  just  now  only  of  the  ill-shaped  body  of  this  figure 
of  Fortune,  or  Pleasure.  Beneath  her  feet  is  an  elaborate 
landscape.  It  is  all  drawn  out  of  Durer's  head  ; — he  would 
look  at  bones  or  tendons  carefully,  or  at  the  leaf  details  of 
foreground  ; — but  at  the  breadth  and  loveliness  of  real  land- 
scape, never. 

He  has  tried  to  give  you  a  bird's-eye  view  of  Germany  ; 
rocks,  and  woods,  and  clouds,  and  brooks,  and  the  pebbles  in 
their  beds,  and  mills,  and  cottages,  and  fences,  and  what  not ; 
but  it  is  all  a  feverish  dream,  ghastly  and  strange,  a  monotone 
of  diseased  imagination. 

And  here  is  a  little  bit  of  the  world  he  would  not  look  at — 
of  the  great  river  of  his  land,  with  a  single  cluster  of  its  reeds, 
and  two  boats,  and  an  island  with  a  village,  and  the  way  for 
the  eternal  waters  opened  between  the  rounded  hills.* 

*  The  engraving  of  Turner's  "  Scene  on  the  Rhine  "  (near  Bingen  ?  ) 
with  boats  on  the  right,  and  reedy  foreground  on  left ;  the  -opening 


400  ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 

It  is  just  what  you  may  see  any  clay,  anywhere, — innocent, 
seemingly  artless  ;  but  the  artlessness  of  Turner  is  like  the 
face  of  Gainsborough's  village  girl,  and  a  joy  forever. 


IV. 

On  the  study  of  anatomy. 

The  virtual  beginner  of  artistic  anatomy  in  Italy  was  a  man 
called  '  The  Poulterer ' — from  his  grandfather's  trade  ;  ' Polla- 
juolo,'  a  man  of  immense  power,  but  on  whom  the  curse  of 
the  Italian  mind  in  this  age  *  was  set  at  its  deepest. 

Any  form  of  passionate  excess  has  terrific  effects  on  body 
and  soul,  in  nations  as  in  men  ;  and  when  this  excess  is  in 
rage,  and  rage  against  your  brother,  and  rage  accomplished 
in  habitual  deeds  of  blood, — do  you  think  Nature  will  forget 
to  set  the  seal  of  her  indignation  upon  the  forehead  ?  I  told 
you  that  the  great  division  of  spirit  between  the  northern  and 
southern  races  had  been  reconciled  in  the  Val  d'Arno.  The 
Font  of  Florence,  and  the  Font  of  Pisa,  were  as  the  very 
springs  of  the  life  of  the  Christianity  which  had  gone  forth  to 
teach  all  nations,  baptizing  them  in  the  name  of  the  Prince  of 
Peace.  Yet  these  two  brother  cities  were  to  each  other — I  do 
not  say  as  Abel  and  Cain,  but  as  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  and 
the  words  of  iEschylus  are  now  fulfilled  in  them  to  the  utter- 
most. The  Arno  baptizes  their  dead  bodies  : — their  native 
valley  between  its  mountains  is  to  them  as  the  furrow  of  a 
grave  ; — "  and  so  much  of  their  land  they  have,  as  is  sepul- 
chre." Nay,  not  of  Florence  and  Pisa  only  was  this  true  : 
Venice  and  Genoa  died  in  death- grapple  ;  and  eight  cities  of 
Lombardy  divided  between  them  the  joy  of  levelling  Milan  to 
her  lowest  stone.    Nay,  not  merely  in  city  against  city,  but  in 

between  its  mountain  banks  in  central  distance.  It  is  exquisitely  en- 
graved, the  plate  being  of  the  size  of  the  drawing,  about  ten  inches  by 
six,  and  finished  with  extreme  care  and  feeling. 

*  See  the  horrible  picture  of  St.  Sebastian  by  him  in  our  own  National 
Gallery. 


APPENDIX. 


401 


street  against  street,  and  house  against  house,  the  fury  of  the 
Theban  dragon  flamed  ceaselessly,  and  with  the  same  excuse 
upon  men's  lips.  The  sign  of  the  shield  of  Polynices,  Justice 
bringing  back  the  exile,  was  to  them  all,  in  turn,  the  portent 
of  death  :  and  their  history,  in  the  sum  of  it  and  substance,  is 
as  of  the  servants  of  Joab  and  Abner  by  the  pool  of  Gibeon. 
"  They  caught  every  one  his  fellow  by  the  head,  and  thrust 
his  sword  in  his  fellow's  side  ;  so  they  fell  down  together  : 
wherefore  that  place  was  called  6  the  field  of  the  strong 
men.' " 

Now  it  is  not  possible  for  Christian  men  to  live  thus,  except 
under  a  fever  of  insanity.  I  have  before,  in  my  lectures  on 
Prudence  and  Insolence  in  art,  deliberately  asserted  to  you 
the  logical  accuracy  of  the  term  1  demoniacal  possession  ' — the 
being  in  the  power  or  possession  of  a  betraying  spirit ;  and 
the  definite  sign  of  such  insanity  is  delight  in  witnessing  pain, 
usually  accompanied  by  an  instinct  that  gloats  over  or  plays 
with  physical  uncleanness  or  disease,  and  always  by  a  morbid 
egotism.  It  is  not  to  be  recognized  for  demoniacal  power  so 
much  by  its  viciousness,  as  its  fjaltriness, — the  taking  pleasure 
in  minute,  contemptible,  and  loathsome  things.*  Now,  in 
the  middle  of  the  gallery  of  the  Brera  at  Milan,  there  is  an 
elaborate  study  of  a  dead  Christ,  entirely  characteristic  of 
early  fifteenth  century  Italian  madman's  work.  It  is  called — 
and  was  presented  to  the  people  as — a  Christ ;  but  it  is  only 
an  anatomical  study  of  a  vulgar  and  ghastly  dead  body,  with 
the  soles  of  the  feet  set  straight  at  the  spectator,  and  the  rest 
foreshortened.  It  is  either  Castagno's  or  Mantegna's, — in  my 
mind,  set  down  to  Castagno  ;  but  I  have  not  looked  at  the  pict- 
ure for  years,  and  am  not  sure  at  this  moment.  It  does  not 
matter  a  straw  which  :  it  is  exactly  characteristic  of  the  mad- 
ness in  which  all  of  them — Pollajuolo,  Castagno,  Mantegna, 
Lionardo  da  Vinci,  and  Michael  Angelo,  polluted  their  work 
with  the  science  of  the  sepulchre,  f  and  degraded  it  with  pre- 

*  As  in  the  muscles  of  the  legs  and  effort  in  stretching  bows,  of  the 
executioners,  in  the  picture  just  referred  to. 

f  Observe,  I  entirely  distinguish  the  study  of  anatomy — i.e.,  of  in- 
tense bone  and  muscle — from  study  of  the  nude,  as  the  Greeks  practised 


402 


ARIADNE  FL OliENTlNA . 


sumptuous  and  paltry  technical  skill.  Foreshorten  your 
Christ,  and  paint  him,  if  you  can,  half  putrefied, — that  is  the 
scientific  art  of  the  Renaissance. 

It  is  impossible,  however,  in  so  vast  a  subject  to  distinguish 
always  the  beginner  of  things  from  the  establisher.  To  the 
poulterer's  son,  Pollajuolo,  remains  the  eternal  shame  of  first 
making  insane  contest  the  only  subject  of  art ;  but  the  two 
establishers  of  anatomy  were  Lionardo  and  Michael  Angelo. 
You  hear  of  Lionardo  chiefly  because  of  his  Last  Supper,  but 
Italy  did  not  hear  of  him  for  that.  This  was  not  what  brought 
her  to  wTorship  Lionardo — but  the  Battle  of  the  Standard. 

it.  This  for  an  entirely  great  painter  is  absolutely  necessary  ;  but  yet  I 
believe,  in  the  case  of  Botticelli,  it  was  nobly  restricted.  The  following 
note  by  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  contains,  I  think,  the  probable  truth:  — 

"The  facts  relating  to  Sandro  Botticelli's  models,  or  rather  to  his 
favourite  model  (as  it  appears  to  me),  are  but  few  ;  and  it  is  greatly  to 
be  regretted  that  his  pictures  are  seldom  dated  ; — if  it  were  certain  in 
what  order  they  appeared,  what  follows  here  might  approach  moral  cer- 
tainty. 

u  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  great  personal  regard  for  Fra  Filippo, 
up  to  that  painter's  death  in  1469,  Sandro  being  then  twenty-two  years 
old.  He  may  probably  have  got  only  good  from  him  ;  anyhow  he  would 
get  a  strong  turn  for  Realism, — i.e.,  the  treatment  of  sacred  and  all 
other  subjects  in  a  realistic  manner.  He  is  described  in  Crowe  and 
Cavalcaselle  from  Filippino  Lippi's  Martyrdom  of  St.  Peter,  as  a  sullen 
and  sensual  man,  with,  beetle  brows,  large  fleshy  mouth,  etc.,  etc. 
Probably  he  was  a  strong  man,  and  intense  in  physical  and  intellectual 
habit. 

"  This  man,  then,  begins  to  paint  in  his  strength,  with  conviction — 
rather  happy  and  innocent  than  not — that  it  is  right  to  paint  any  beau- 
tiful thing,  and  best  to  paint  the  most  beautiful, — say  in  1470,  at  twenty- 
three  years  of  age.  The  allegorical  Spring  and  the  Graces,  and  the 
Aphrodite  now  in  the  Ufficii,  were  painted  for  Cosmo,  and  seem  to  be 
taken  by  Vasari  and  others  as  early,  or  early- central,  works  in  his  life  : 
also  the  portrait  of  Simonetta  Vespucei.1  He  is  known  to  have  painted 
much  in  early  life  for  the  Vespucei  and  the  Medici  ;— and  this  daughter 
of  the  former  house  seems  to  have  been  inamorata  or  mistress  of  Giuliano 
de'  Medici,  murdered  by  the  Pazzi  in  1478.  Now  it  seems  agreed  by 
Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  Pater,  etc.,  (and  I  am  quite  sure  of  it  myself 
as  to  the  pictures  mentioned)— first,  that  the  same  slender  and  long- 


»  Pitti,  Stanza  di  Frometeo,  348. 


APPENDIX. 


403 


V. 

Fragments  on  Holbein  and  others. 

Of  Holbein's  St.  Elizabeth,  remember,  she  is  not  a  perfect 
Saint  Elizabeth,  by  any  means.  She  is  an  honest  and  sweet 
German  lady, — the  best  he  could  see  ;  he  could  do  no  better  ; 
— and  so  I  come  back  to  my  old  story, — no  man  can  do  better 
than  he  sees  :  if  he  can  reach  the  nature  round  him,  it  is  well ; 
he  may  fall  short  of  it ;  he  cannot  rise  above  it ;  "  the  best,  in 
this  kind,  are  but  shadows." 

*  *  *  *  *  %  * 

Yet  that  intense  veracity  of  Holbein  is  indeed  the  strength 
and  glory  of  all  the  northern  schools.    They  exist  only  in  be- 

throated  model  appears  in  Spring,  the  Aphrodite,  Calumny,  and  other 
works.1  Secondly,  that  she  was  Simonetta,  the  original  of  the  Pitti 
portrait. 

"Now  I  think  she  must  have  been  induced  to  let  Sandro  draw  from 
her  whole  person  undraped,  more  or  less;  and  that  he  must  have  done 
so  as  such  a  man  probably  would,  in  strict  honour  as  to  deed,  word,  and 
definite  thought,  but  under  occasional  accesses  of  passion  of  which  he 
said  nothing,  and  which  in  all  probability  and  by  grace  of  God  refined 
down  to  nil,  or  nearly  so,  as  he  got  accustomed  to  look  in  honour  at  so 
beautiful  a  thing.  (He  may  have  left  off  the  undraped  after  her  death.) 
First,  her  figure  is  absolutely  fine  Gothic  ;  I  don't  think  any  antique  is 
so  slender.  Secondly,  she  has  the  sad,  passionate,  and  exquisite  Lom- 
bard mouth.  Thirdly,  her  limbs  shrink  together,  and  she  seems  not 
quite  to  have  4  liked  it,'  or  been  an  accustomed  model.  Fourthly,  there 
is  tradition,  giving  her  name  to  all  those  forms. 

u  Her  lover  Giuliano  was  murdered  in  1478,  and  Savonarola  hanged 
and  burnt  in  1498.  Now,  can  her  distress,  and  Savonarola's  preaching, 
between  them,  have  taken,  in  few  years,  all  the  carnality  out  of  Sandro, 
supposing  him  to  have  come  already,  by  seventy-eight,  to  that  state  in 
which  the  sight  of  her  delighted  him,  without  provoking  ulterior  feel- 
ings V  All  decent  men  accustomed  to  draw  from  the  nude  tell  us  they 
get  to  that. 

u  Sandro's  Dante  is  dated  as  published  in  1482.  He  may  have  been 
saddening  by  that  time,  and  weary  of  beauty,  pure  or  mixed  ; — though 
he  went  on  painting  Madonnas,  I  fancy.    (Can  Simonetta  be  traced  \n 


»  I  think  Zipporah  may  be  a  remembrance  of  her. 


404 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINE 


ing  true.  Their  work  among  men  is  the  definition  of  what  t$ 
and  the  abiding  by  it.  They  cannot  dream  of  what  is  not. 
They  make  fools  of  themselves  if  they  try.  Think  how  feeble 
even  Shakspeare  is  when  he  tries  his  hand  at  a  Goddess ; — 
women,  beautiful  and  womanly, — as  many  as  you  choose  ;  but 
who  cares  what  his  Minerva  or  Juno,  say  in  the  masque  of  the 
Tempest  ?  And  for  the  painters — when  Sir  Joshua  tries  for  a 
Madonna,  or  Vandyke  for  a  Diana — they  can't  even  paint! 

any  of  them  ?  I  think  not.  The  Sistine  paintings  extend  from  1481.  to 
1484,  however.  I  cannot  help  thinking  Zipporah  is  impressed  with 
her.)  After  Savonarola's  death,  Sandro  must  have  lost  heart,  and  gone 
into  Dante  altogether.  Most  ways  in  literature  and  art  lead  to  Dante ; 
and  this  question  about  the  nude  and  the  purity  of  Botticelli  is  no  ex- 
ception to  the  rule. 

"  Now  in  the  Purgatorio,  Lust  is  the  last  sin  of  which  we  are  to  be 
made  pure,  and  it  has  to  be  burnt  out  of  us  :  being  itself  as  searching 
as  fire,  as  smouldering,  devouring,  and  all  that.  Corruptio  optimi  pes- 
siina  :  and  it  is  the  most  searching  and  lasting  of  evils,  because  it  really 
is  a  corruption  attendant  on  true  Love,  which  is  eternal — whatever  the 
word  means.  That  this  is  so,  seems  to  me  to  demonstrate  the  truth  of 
the  Fall  of  Man  from  the  condition  of  moral  very-goodness  in  Gods 
sight.  And  I  think  that  Dante  connected  the  purifying  pains  of  his  in- 
termediate state  with  actual  sufferings  in  this  life,  working  out  repen- 
tance,—in  himself  and  others.  And  the  'torment'  of  this  passion,  to 
the  repentant  or  resisting,  or  purity-seeking  soul  is  decidedly  like  the 
pain  of  physical  burning. 

' '  Further,  its  casuistry  is  impracticable  ;  because  the  more  you  stir 
the  said  'fire,'  the  stronger  hold  it  takes.  Therefore,  men  and  women 
are  rightly  secret  about  it,  and  detailed  confessions  unadvisable.  Much 
talk  about  '  hypocrisy  '  in  this  matter  is  quite  wrong  and  unjust.  Then, 
its  connexion  with  female  beauty,  as  a  cause  of  love  between  man  and 
woman,  seems  to  me  to  be  the  inextricable  nodus  of  the  Fall,  the  here 
inseparable  mixture  of  good  and  evil,  till  soul  and  body  are  parted. 
For  the  sense  of  seen  Beauty  is  the  awakening  of  Love,  at  whatever 
distance  from  any  kind  of  return  or  sympathy — as  with  a  rose,  or  what 
not.  Sandro  may  be  the  man  who  has  gone  nearest  to  the  right  separa- 
tion of  Delight  from  Desire  :  supposing  that  he  began  with  religion  and 
a  straight  conscience  ;  saw  lovingly  the  error  of  Fra  Filippo's  way  ;  saw 
with  intense  distant  love  the  error  of  Simonetta's ;  and  reflected  on 
Florence  and  iU  way,  and  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Savonarola,  being 
Tet  too  big  a  man  for  asceticism  ;  and  finally  wearied  of  all  things,  and 
.sunk  into  poverty  and  peace." 


APPENDIX. 


405 


they  become  total  simpletons.  Look  at  Rubens'  mythologies 
in  the  Louvre,  or  at  modern  French  heroics,  or  German  piet- 
isms !  Why,  all — Cornelius,  Hesse,  Overbeck,  and  David — put 
together,  are  not  worth  one  De  Hooghe  of  an  old  woman  with 
a  broom  sweeping  a  back -kitchen.  The  one  thing  we  north- 
erns can  do  is  to  find  out  what  is  fact,  and  insist  on  it :  mean 
fact  it  may  be,  or  noble, — but  fact  always,  or  we  die. 

Yet  the  intensest  form  of  northern  realization  can  be 
matched  in  the  south,  when  the  southerns  choose.  There  are 
two  pieces  of  animal  drawing  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  unrivalled 
for  literal  veracity.  The  sheep  at  the  well  in  front  of  Zip- 
porah  ;  and  afterwards,  when  she  is  going  away,  leading  her 
children,  her  eldest  boy,  like  every  one  else,  has  taken  his 
chief  treasure  with  him,  and  this  treasure  is  his  pet  dog.  It 
is  a  little  sharp-nosed  white  fox-terrier,  full  of  fire  and  life  ; 
but  not  strong  enough  for  a  long  walk.  So  little  Gershom, 
whose  name  was  "the  stranger"  because  his  father  had  been 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land, — little  Gershom  carries  his  white 
terrier  under  his  arm,  lying  on  the  top  of  a  large  bundle  to 
make  it  comfortable.  The  doggie  puts  its  sharp  nose  and 
bright  eyes  out,  above  his  hand,  with  a  little  roguish  gleam 
sideways  in  them,  which  means, — if  I  can  read  rightly  a  dog's 
expression, — that  he  has  been  barking  at  Moses  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  has  nearly  put  him  out  of  temper  :— and  without  any 
doubt,  I  can  assert  to  you  that  there  is  not  any  other  such 
piece  of  animal  painting  in  the  world, — so  brief,  intense,  vivid, 
and  absolutely  balanced  in  truth  ;  as  tenderly  drawn  as  if  it 
had  been  a  saint,  yet  as  humorously  as  Landseer's  Lord  Chan- 
cellor poodle. 

Oppose  to  Holbein's  Veracity — Botticelli's  Fantasy. 

Shade  "  Colour. 

Despair  "  Faith. 

"  "        Grossness        "  Purity. 

True  Fantasy.  Botticelli's  Tree  in  Hellespontic  Sibyl.  Not 
a  real  tree  at  all — yet  founded  on  intensest  perception  of  beau- 
tiful reality.  So  the  swan  of  Clio,  as  opposed  to  Durer's  cock, 
or  to  Turner's  swan. 


406 


ARIADNE  FLORENTINA. 


The  Italian  power  of  abstraction  into  one  mythologic  per- 
sonage— Holbein's  death  is  only  literal.  He  has  to  split  hia 
death  into  thirty  different  deaths  ;  and  each  is  but  a  skeleton. 
But  Orcagna's  death  is  one — the  power  of  death  itself.  There 
may  thus  be  as  much  breadth  in  thought,  as  in  execution. 
*  *  *  *  *  % 

What  then,  we  have  to  ask,  is  a  man  conscious  of  in  what  he 
sees? 

For  instance,  in  all  Cruikshank's  etchings — however  slight 
the  outline — there  is  an  intense  consciousness  of  light  and 
shade,  and  of  local  colour,  as  a  part  of  light  and  shade ;  but 
none  of  colour  itself.  He  was  wholly  incapable  of  colouring  ; 
and  perhaps  this  very  deficiency  enabled  him  to  give  graphic 
harmony  to  engraving. 

****** 

Bewick — snow-pieces,  etc.  Grey  predominant ;  perfect  sense 
of  colour,  coming  out  in  patterns  of  birds  ; — yet  so  unculti- 
vated, that  he  engraves  the  brown  birds  better  than  pheasant 
or  peacock  ! 

For  quite  perfect  consciousness  of  colour  makes  engraving 
impossible,  and  you  have  instead — Correggio. 


VI. 

Final  notes  on  light  and  shade. 

You  will  find  in  the  138th  and  147th  paragraphs  of  my  in* 
augural  lectures,  statements  which,  if  you  were  reading  the 
book  by  yourselves,  would  strike  you  probably  as  each  of 
them  difficult,  and  in  some  degree  inconsistent, — namely,  that 
the  school  of  colour  has  exquisite  character  and  sentiment ; 
but  is  childish,  cheerful,  and  fantastic  ;  while  the  school  of 
shade  is  deficient  in  character  and  sentiment ;  but  supreme  in 
intellect  and  veracity.  "The  way  by  light  and  shade,"  I  say, 
"  is  taken  by  men  of  the  highest  powers  of  thought  and  most 
earnest  desire  for  truth." 


APPENDIX. 


407 


The  school  of  shade,  I  say,  is  deficient  in  character  and  sen- 
timent. Compare  any  of  Durer's  Madonnas  with  any  of  An- 
gelico's. 

Yet  you  may  discern  in  the  Apocalypse  engravings  that 
Durer's  mind  was  seeking  for  truths,  and  dealing  with  ques- 
tions, which  no  more  could  have  occurred  to  Angelico's  mind 
than  to  that  of  a  two-years'-old  baby. 

The  two  schools  unite  in  various  degree  ;  but  are  always 
distinguishably  generic,  the  two  headmost  masters  represent- 
ing each  being  Tintoret  and  Perugino.  The  one,  deficient  in 
sentiment,  and  continually  offending  us  by  the  want  of  it,  but 
full  of  intellectual  power  and  suggestion. 

The  other,  repeating  ideas  with  so  little  reflection  that  he 
gets  blamed  for  doing  the  same  thing  over  again,  (Vasari)  ; 
but  exquisite  in  sentiment  and  the  conditions  of  taste  which 
it  forms,  so  as  to  become  the  master  of  it  to  Raphael  and  to 
all  succeeding  him  ;  and  remaining  such  a  type  of  sentiment, 
too  delicate  to  be  felt  by  the  latter  practical  mind  of  Dutch- 
bred  England,  that  Goldsmith  makes  the  admiration  of  him 
the  test  of  absurd  connoisseurship.  But  yet,  with  under- 
current of  intellect,  which  gets  him  accused  of  free-thinking, 
and  therefore  with  under-current  of  entirely  exquisite  chiaros- 
curo. 

Light  and  shade,  then,  imply  the  understanding  of  things 
— Colour,  the  imagination  and  the  sentiment  of  them. 

In  Turner's  distinctive  work,  colour  is  scarcely  acknowl- 
edged unless  under  influences  of  sunshine.  The  sunshine  is 
his  treasure  ;  his  lividest  gloom  contains  it ;  his  greyest  twi- 
light regrets  it,  and  remembers.  Blue  is  always  a  blue 
shadow  ;  brown  or  gold,  always  light ; — nothing  is  cheerful 
but  sunshine  ;  wherever  the  sun  is  not,  there  is  melancholy 
or  evil.  Apollo  is  God  ;  and  all  forms  of  death  and  sorrow 
exist  in  opposition  to  him. 

But  in  Perugino's  distinctive  work, — and  therefore  I  have 
given  him  the  captain's  place  over  all, — there  is  simply  no 
darkness,  no  wrong.  Every  colour  is  lovely,  and  every  space 
is  light.  The  world,  the  universe,  is  divine :  all  sadness  is  a 
part  of  harmony  ;  and  all  gloom,  a  part  of  peace. 


THE  OPENING 

OF 

THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE 

CONSIDERED  IN  SOME  OF  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE 
PROSPECTS  OF  ART 


THE  OPENING- 

OF 

THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE 

CONSIDERED  IN  SOME  OF  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  PROSPECTS  OF  ART 


I  read  the  account  in  the  Times  newspaper  of  the  opening 
of  the  Crystal  Palace  at  Sydenham,  as  I  ascended  the  hill  be- 
tween Vevay  and  Chatel  St.  Denis,  and  the  thoughts  which  it 
called  up  haunted  me  all  day  long,  as  my  road  wound  among 
the  grassy  slopes  of  the  Simmenthal.  There  was  a  strange 
contrast  between  the  image  of  that  mighty  palace,  raised  so 
high  above  the  hills  on  which  it  is  built  as  to  make  them 
seem  little  else  than  a  basement  for  its  glittering  stateliness, 
and  those  low  larch  huts,  half  hidden  beneath  their  coverts  of 
forest,  and  scattered  like  gray  stones  along  the  masses  of  far 
away  mountain.  Here,  man  contending  with  the  power  of 
Nature  for  his  existence ;  there,  commanding  them  for  his 
recreation  :  here  a  feeble  folk  nested  among  the  rocks  with 
the  wild  goat  and  the  coney,  and  retaining  the  same  quiet 
thoughts  from  generation  to  generation  ;  there,  a  great  multi- 
tude triumphing  in  the  splendour  of  immeasurable  habitation, 
and  haughty  with  hope  of  endless  progress  and  irresistible 
power. 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  limit,  in  imagination,  the  be- 
neficent results  which  may  follow  from  the  undertaking  thus 
happily  begun.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
a  national  museum  is  formed  in  which  a  whole  nation  is  in- 


412 


THE  OPENING  OF 


terested  ;  formed  on  a  scale  which  permits  the  exhibition  of 
monuments  of  art  in  unbroken  symmetry,  and  of  the  produc- 
tions of  nature  in  un thwarted  growth, — formed  under  the 
auspices  of  science  which  can  hardly  err,  and  of  wealth  which 
can  hardly  be  exhausted  ;  and  placed  in  the  close  neighbour- 
hood of  a  metropolis  overflowing  with  a  population  weary  of 
labour,  yet  thirsting  for  knowledge,  where  contemplation  may 
be  consistent  with  rest,  and  instruction  with  enjoyment.  It 
is  impossible,  I  repeat,  to  estimate  the  influence  of  such  an 
institution  on  the  minds  of  the  working-classes.  How  many 
hours  once  wasted  may  now  be  profitably  dedicated  to  pur- 
suits in  which  interest  was  first  awakened  by  some  accidental 
display  in  the  Norwood  palace  ;  how  many  constitutions,  al- 
most broken,  may  be  restored  by  the  healthy  temptation  into 
the  country  air, — how  many  intellects,  once  dormant,  may  be 
roused  into  activity  within  the  crystal  walls,  and  how  these 
noble  results  may  go  on  multiplying  and  increasing  and  bear- 
ing fruit  seventy  times  sevenfold,  as  the  nation  pursues  its 
career, — are  questions  as  full  of  hope  as  incapable  of  calcula- 
tion. But  with  all  these  grounds  for  hope  there  are  others 
for  despondency,  giving  rise  to  a  group  of  melancholy  thoughts, 
of  which  I  can  neither  repress  the  importunity  nor  forbear  the 
expression. 

For  three  hundred  years,  the  art  of  architecture  has  been  the 
subject  of  the  most  curious  investigation  ;  its  principles  have 
been  discussed  with  all  earnestness  and  acuteness  ;  its  models 
in  all  countries  and  of  all  ages  have  been  examined  with  scru- 
pulous care,  and  imitated  with  unsparing  expenditure.  And 
of  all  this  refinement  of  enquiry, — this  lofty  search  after  the 
ideal, — this  subtlety  of  investigation  and  sumptuousness  of 
practice, — the  great  result,  the  admirable  and  long-expected 
conclusion  is,  that  in  the  centre  of  the  19th  century,  we  sup- 
pose ourselves  to  have  invented  a  new  style  of  architecture, 
when  we  have  magnified  a  conservatory ! 

In  Mr.  Laing's  speech,  at  the  opening  of  the  palace,  he  de- 
clares that  "an  entirely  novel  order  of  architecture,  producing, 
by  means  of  unrivalled  mechanical  ingenuity,  the  most  mar- 
vellous and  beautiful  effects,  sprang  into  existence  to  provide 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


413 


a  building/'*  In  these  words,  the  speaker  is  not  merely  giv- 
ing utterance  to  his  own  feelings.  He  is  expressing  the  popu- 
lar view  of  the  facts,  nor  that  a  view  merely  popular,  but  one 
which  has  been  encouraged  by  nearly  all  the  professors  of  art 
of  our  time. 

It  is  to  this,  then,  that  our  Doric  and  Palladian  pride  is  at 
last  reduced !  We  have  vaunted  the  divinity  of  the  Greek 
ideal — we  have  plumed  ourselves  on  the  purity  of  our  Italian 
taste — we  have  cast  our  whole  souls  into  the  proportions  of 
pillars,  and  the  relations  of  orders — and  behold  the  end  !  Our 
taste,  thus  exalted  and  disciplined,  is  dazzled  by  the  lustre  of 
a  few  rows  of  panes  of  glass  ;  and  the  first  principles  of  archi- 
tectural sublimity,  so  far  sought,  are  found  all  the  while  to 
have  consisted  merely  in  sparkling  and  in  space. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I  would  depreciate  (were  it  pos- 
sible to  depreciate)  the  mechanical  ingenuity  which  has  been 
displayed  in  the  erection  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  or  that  I  un- 
derrate the  effect  which  its  vastness  may  continue  to  produce 
on  the  popular  imagination.  But  mechanical  ingenuity  is  not 
the  essence  either  of  painting  or  architecture  :  and  largeness 
of  dimension  does  not  necessarily  involve  nobleness  of  design. 
There  is  assuredly  as  much  ingenuity  required  to  build  a 
screw  frigate,  or  a  tubular  bridge,  as  a  hall  of  glass  ; — all 
these  are  works  characteristic  of  the  age ;  and  all,  in  their 
several  ways,  deserve  our  highest  admiration ;  but  not  ad- 
miration of  the  kind  that  is  rendered  to  poetry  or  to  art.  We 
may  cover  the  German  Ocean  with  frigates,  and  bridge  the 
Bristol  Channel  with  iron,  and  roof  the  county  of  Middlesex 
with  crystal,  and  yet  not  possess  one  Milton,  or  Michael  An- 
gelo. 

Well,  it  may  be  replied,  we  need  our  bridges,  and  have 
pleasure  in  our  palaces ;  but  we  do  not  want  Miltons,  nor 
Michael  Angelos. 

Truly,  it  seems  so  ;  for,  in  the  year  in  which  the  first  Crys- 
tal Palace  was  built,  there  died  among  us  a  man  whose  name, 
in  after  ages,  will  stand  with  those  of  the  great  of  all  time. 
Dying,  he  bequeathed  to  the  nation  the  whole  mass  of  his 

*  See  the  Times  of  Monday,  June  12th. 


414 


THE  OPENING  OF 


most  cherished  works :  and  for  these  three  years,  while  we 
have  been  building  this  colossal  receptable  for  casts  and  copies 
of  the  art  of  other  nations,  these  works  of  our  own  greatest 
painter  have  been  left  to  decay  in  a  dark  room  near  Cavendish 
Square,  under  the  custody  of  an  aged  servant. 

This  is  quite  natural.    But  it  is  also  memorable. 

There  is  another  interesting  fact  connected  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  Crystal  Palace  as  it  bears  on  that  of  the "  art  of 
Europe,  namely,  that  in  the  year  1851,  when  all  that  glitter- 
ing roof  was  built,  in  order  to  exhibit  the  petty  arts  of  our 
fashionable  luxury — the  carved  bedsteads  of  Vienna,  and  glued 
toys  of  Switzerland,  and  gay  jewellery  of  France — in  that  very 
year,  I  say,  the  greatest  pictures  of  the  Venetian  masters 
were  rotting  at  Venice  in  the  rain,  for  want  of  roof  to  cover 
them,  with  holes  made  by  cannon  shot  through  their  canvas. 

There  is  another  fact,  however,  more  curious  than  either  of 
these,  which  will  hereafter  be  connected  with  the  history  of 
the  palace  now  in  building  ;  namely,  that  at  the  very  period 
when  Europe  is  congratulated  on  the  invention  of  a  new  style 
of  architecture,  because  fourteen  acres  of  ground  have  been 
covered  with  glass,  the  greatest  examples  in  existence  of  true 
and  noble  Christian  architecture  were  being  resolutely  de- 
stroyed ;  and  destroyed  by  the  effects  of  the  very  interest 
which  was  slowly  beginning  to  bo  excited  by  them. 

Under  the  firm  and  wise  government  of  the  third  Napoleon, 
France  has  entered  on  a  new  epoch  of  prosperity,  one  of  the 
signs  of  which  is  a  zealous  care  for  the  preservation  of  her  no- 
ble public  buildings.  Under  the  influence  of  this  healthy  im- 
pulse, repairs  of  the  most  extensive  kind  are  at  this  moment 
proceeding,  on  the  cathedrals  of  Kheims,  Amiens,  Eouen, 
Chartres,  and  Paris  (probably  also  in  many  other  instances 
unknown  to  me).  These  repairs  were,  in  many  cases,  neces- 
sary up  to  a  certain  point ;  and  they  have  been  executed  by 
architects  as  skilful  and  learned  as  at  present  exist, — executed 
with  noble  disregard  of  expense,  and  sincere  desire  on  the 
part  of  their  superintendents  that  they  should  be  completed 
in  a  manner  honourable  to  the  country. 

They  are  nevertheless  more  fatal  to  the  monuments  they 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


415 


are  intended  to  preserve,  than  fire,  war,  or  revolution.  For 
they  are  undertaken,  in  the  plurality  of  instances,  under  an 
impression,  which  the  efforts  of  all  true  antiquaries  have  as 
yet  been  unable  to  remove,  that  it  is  possible  to  reproduce 
the  mutilated  sculpture  of  past  ages  in  its  original  beauty. 

"Reproduire  avec  une  exactitude  mathematique/' are  the 
words  used,  by  one  of  the  most  intelligent  writers  on  this 
subject,*  of  the  proposed  regeneration  of  the  statue  of  Ste. 
Modeste,  on  the  north  porch  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres. 

Now,  it  is  not  the  question  at  present,  whether  13th  cen- 
tury sculpture  be  of  value,  or  not.  Its  value  is  assumed  by 
the  authorities  who  have  devoted  sums  so  large  to  its  so-called 
restoration,  and  may  therefore  be  assumed  in  my  argument. 
The  worst  state  of  the  sculptures  whose  restoration  is  demanded 
may  be  fairly  represented  by  that  of  the  celebrated  group  of 
the  Fates,  among  the  Elgin  Marbles  in  the  British  Museum. 
With  what  favour  would  the  guardians  of  those  marbles,  or 
any  other  persons  interested  in  Greek  art,  receive  a  proposal 
from  a  living  sculptor  to  "  reproduce  writh  mathematical  ex- 
actitude "  the  group  of  the  Fates,  in  a  perfect  form,  and  to 
destroy  the  original?  For  with  exactly  such  favour,  those 
who  are  interested  in  Gothic  art  should  receive  proposals  to 
reproduce  the  sculpture  of  Chartres  or  Rouen. 

In  like  manner,  the  state  of  the  architecture  which  it  is  pro- 
posed to  restore,  may,  at  its  worst,  be  fairly  represented  to  the 
British  public  by  that  of  the  best  preserved  portions  of  Mel- 
rose Abbey.  With  what  encouragement  would  those  among 
us  who  are  sincerely  interested  in  history,  or  in  art,  receive  a 
proposal  to  pull  down  Melrose  Abbey,  and  "reproduce  it 
mathematically  ? "  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  answer 
which,  in  the  instances  supposed,  it  would  be  proper  to  re- 
turn. "  By  all  means,  if  you  can,  reproduce  mathematically, 
elsewhere,  the  group  of  the  Fates,  and  the  Abbey  of  Melrose. 
But  leave  unharmed  the  original  fragment,  and  the  existing 
rain."  And  an  answer  of  the  same  tenour  ought  to  be  given 
to  every  proposal  to  restore  a  Gothic  sculpture  or  building. 

*  M.  l'Abbe  Bulteau,  Description  de  la  Cathedrale  de  Chartres,  (8vo. 
Paris,  Sagnier  et  Bray,  1850),  p.  98,  note. 


416 


THE  OPENING  OF 


Carve  or  raise  a  model  of  it  in  some  other  part  of  the  city, 
but  touch  not  the  actual  edifice,  except  only  so  far  as  may  be 
necessary  to  sustain,  to  protect  it.  I  said  above  that  repairs 
were  in  many  instances  necessary.  These  necessary  operations 
consist  in  substituting  new  stones  for  decayed  ones,  where 
they  are  absolutely  essential  to  the  stability  of  the  fabric  ;  in 
propping,  with  wood  or  metal,  the  portions  likely  to  give  way ; 
in  binding  or  cementing  into  their  places  the  sculptures  which 
are  ready  to  detach  themselves  ;  and  in  general  care  to  remove 
luxuriant  weeds,  and  obstructions  of  the  channels  for  the  dis- 
charge of  the  rain.  But  no  modern  or  imitative  sculpture 
ought  ever,  under  any  circumstances,  to  be  mingled  with  the 
ancient  work. 

Unfortunately,  repairs  thus  conscientiously  executed  are 
always  unsightly,  and  meet  with  little  approbation  from  the 
general  public  ;  so  that  a  strong  temptation  is  necessarily  felt 
by  aft  superintendents  of  public  works,  to  execute  the  re- 
quired repairs  in  a  manner  which,  though  indeed  fatal  to  the 
monument,  may  be,  in  appearance,  seemly.  But  a  far  more 
cruel  temptation  is  held  out  to  the  architect.  He  who  should 
propose  to  a  municipal  body,  to  build  in  the  form  of  a  new 
church,  to  be  erected  in  some  other  part  of  their  city,  models 
of  such  portions  of  their  cathedral  as  were  falling  into  decay, 
would  be  looked  upon  as  merely  asking  for  employment,  and 
his  offer  would  be  rejected  with  disdain.  But  let  an  architect 
declare  that  the  existing  fabric  stands  in  need  of  repairs,  and 
offer  to  restore  it  to  its  original  beauty,  and  he  is  instantly  re- 
garded as  a  lover  of  his  country,  and  has  a  chance  of  obtain- 
ing a  commission  which  will  furnish  him  with  a  large  and 
steady  income,  and  enormous  patronage,  for  twenty  or  thirty 
years  to  come. 

I  have  great  respect  for  human  nature.  But  I  would  rather 
leave  it  to  others  than  myself  to  pronounce  how  far  such  a 
temptation  is  always  likely  to  be  resisted,  and  how  far,  when 
repairs  are  once  permitted  to  be  undertaken,  a  fabric  is  likely 
to  be  spared  from  mere  interest  in  its  beauty,  when  its  de- 
struction, under  the  name  of  restoration,  has  become  perma< 
nently  remunerative  to  a  large  body  of  workmen. 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


417 


Let  us  assume,  however,  that  the  architect  is  always  con- 
scientious— always  willing,  the  moment  he  has  done  what  is 
strictly  necessary  for  the  safety  and  decorous  aspect  of  the 
building,  to  abandon  his  income,  and  declare  his  farther  ser- 
vices unnecessary.  Let  us  presume,  also,  that  every  one  of 
the  two  or  three  hundred  workmen  who  must  be  employed 
under  him,  is  equally  conscientious,  and,  during  the  course  of 
years  of  labour,  will  never  destroy  in  carelessness  what  it  may 
be  inconvenient  to  save,  or  in  cunning,  what  it  is  dif/icult  to 
imitate.  Will  all  this  probity  of  purpose  preserve  the  hand 
from  error,  and  the  heart  from  weariness?  Will  it  give  dex- 
terity to  the  awkward — sagacity  to  the  dull — and  at  once  in- 
vest two  or  three  hundred  imperfectly  educated  men  with 
the  feeling,  intention,  and  information,  of  the  freemasons  of 
the  13th  century  ?  Grant  that  it  can  do  all  this,  and  that  the 
new  building  is  both  equal  to  the  old  in  beauty,  and  pre- 
cisely correspondent  to  it  in  detail.  Is  it,  therefore,  altogether 
worth  the  old  building  ?  Is  the  stone  carved  to-day  in  their 
masons'  yards  altogether  the  same  in  value  to  the  hearts  of 
the  French  people  as  that  which  the  eyes  of  St.  Louis  saw 
lifted  to  its  place  ?  Would  a  loving  daughter,  in  mere  desire 
for  gaudy  dress,  ask  a  jeweller  for  a  bright  facsimile  of  the 
worn  cross  which  her  mother  bequeathed  to  her  on  her  death- 
bed?— would  a  thoughful  nation,  in  mere  fondness  for  splen- 
dour of  streets,  ask  its  architects  to  provide  for  it  facsimiles  of 
the  temples  which  for  centuries  had  given  joy  to  its  saints, 
comfort  to  its  mourners,  and  strength  to  its  chivalry  ? 

But  it  may  be  replied,  that  all  this  is  already  admitted  by 
the  antiquaries  of  France  and  England  ;  and  that  it  is  impos- 
sible that  works  so  important  should  now  be  undertaken  with- 
out due  consideration  and  faithful  superintendence. 

I  answer,  that  the  men  who  justly  feel  these  truths  are 
rarely  those  who  have  much  influence  in  public  affairs.  It  is 
the  poor  abbe,  whose  little  garden  is  sheltered  by  the  mighty 
buttresses  from  the  north  wind,  who  knows  the  worth  of  the 
cathedral.  It  is  the  bustling  mayor  and  the  prosperous  archi- 
tect who  determine  its  fate. 

I  answer  farther,  by  the  statement  of  a  simple  fact,   I  have 


418 


THE  OPENING  OF 


given  many  years,  in  many  cities,  to  the  study  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture ;  and  of  all  that  I  know,  or  knew,  the  entrance  to  the 
north  transept  of  Eouen  Cathedral  was,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
beautiful —beautiful,  not  only  as  an  elaborate  and  faultless 
work  of  the  finest  time  of  Gothic  art,  but  yet  more  beautiful 
in  the  partial,  though  not  dangerous,  decay  which  had  touched 
its  pinnacles  with  pensive  colouring,  and  softened  its  severer 
lines  with  unexpected  change,  and  delicate  fracture,  like  sweet 
breaks  in  a  distant  music.  The  upper  part  of  it  has  been  al- 
ready restored  to  the  white  accuracies  of  novelty  ;  the  lower 
pinnacles,  which  flanked  its  approach,  far  more  exquisite  in 
their  partial  ruin  than  the  loveliest  remains  of  our  English 
abbeys,  have  been  entirely  destroyed,  and  rebuilt  in  rough 
blocks,  now  in  process  of  sculpture.  This  restoration,  so  far 
as  it  has  gone,  has  been  executed  by  peculiarly  skilful  work- 
men ;  it  is  an  unusually  favorable  example  of  restoration,  espe- 
cially in  the  care  which  has  been  taken  to  preserve  intact  the 
exquisite,  and  hitherto  almost  uninjured  sculptures  which  fill 
the  quatrefoils  of  the  tracery  above  the  arch.  But  I  happened 
myself  to  have  made,  five  years  ago,  detailed  drawings  of  the 
buttress  decorations  on  the  right  and  left  of  this  tracery, 
which  are  part  of  the  work  that  has  been  completely  restored. 
And  I  found  the  restorations  as  inaccurate  as  they  were  un- 
necessary. 

If  this  is  the  case  in  a  most  favourable  instance,  in  that  of  a 
well-known  monument,  highly  esteemed  by  every  antiquary  in 
France,  what,  during  the  progress  of  the  now  almost  universal 
repairs,  is  likely  to  become  of  architecture  which  is  unwatched 
and  despised  ? 

Despised  !  and  more  than  despised — even  hated !  It  is  a 
sad  truth,  that  there  is  something  in  the  solemn  aspect  of  an- 
cient architecture  which,  in  rebuking  frivolity  and  chastening 
gaiety,  has  become  at  this  time  literally  repulsive  to  a  large 
majority  of  the  population  of  Europe.  Examine  the  direction 
which  is  taken  by  all  the  influences  of  fortune  and  of  fancy, 
wherever  they  concern  themselves  with  art,  and  it  will  be 
found  that  the  real,  earnest  effort  of  the  upper  classes  of  Eu- 
ropean society  is  to  make  every  place  in  the  world  as  much 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


410 


like  the  Champs  Ely  sees  of  Paris  as  possible.  Wherever  the 
influence  of  that  educated  society  is  felt,  the  old  buildings  are 
relentlessly  destroyed  ;  vast  hotels,  like  barracks,  and  rows  of 
high,  square-windowed  dwelling-houses,  thrust  themselves 
forward  to  conceal  the  hated  antiquities  of  the  great  cities  of 
France  and  Italy.  Gay  promenades,  with  fountains  and  stat- 
ues, prolong  themselves  along  the  quays  once  dedicated  to 
commerce  ;  ball-rooms  and  theatres  rise  upon  the  dust  of 
desecrated  chapels,  and  thrust  into  darkness  the  humility  of 
domestic  life.  And  when  the  formal  street,  in  all  its  pride  of 
perfumery  and  confectionery,  has  successfully  consumed  its 
way  through  the  wrecks  of  historical  monuments,  and  con- 
summated its  symmetry  in  the  ruin  of  all  that  once  prompted 
to  reflection,  or  pleaded  for  regard,  the  whitened  city  is  praised 
for  its  splendour,  and  the  exulting  inhabitants  for  their  patri- 
otism— patriotism  which  consists  in  insulting  their  fathers 
with  forgetfulness,  and  surrounding  their  children  with  temp- 
tation. 

I  am  far  from  intending  my  words  to  involve  any  disrespect- 
ful allusion  to  the  very  noble  improvements  in  the  city  of  Paris 
itself,  lately  carried  out  under  the  encouragement  of  the  Em- 
peror. Paris,  in  its  own  peculiar  character  of  bright  mag- 
nificence, had  nothing  to  fear,  and  everything  to  gain,  from 
the  gorgeous  prolongations  of  the  Hue  Eivoli.  But  I  speak 
of  the  general  influence  of  the  rich  travellers  and  proprietors 
of  Europe  on  the  cities  which  they  pretend  to  admire,  or  en- 
deavour to  improve.  I  speak  of  the  changes  wrought  during 
my  own  lifetime,  on  the  cities  of  Venice,  Florence,  Geneva, 
Lucerne,  and  chief  of  all  on  Eouen :  a  city  altogether  inesti- 
mable for  its  retention  of  mediaeval  character  in  the  infinitely 
varied  streets  in  which  one  half  of  the  existing  and  inhabited 
houses  date  from  the  15th  or  early  16th  century  ;  and  the 
only  town  left  in  France  in  which  the  effect  of  old  French  do- 
mestic architecture  can  yet  be  seen  in  its  collective  groups. 
But  when  I  was  there,  this  last  spring,  I  heard  that  these 
noble  old  Norman  houses  are  all,  as  speedily  as  may  be,  to  be 
stripped  of  the  dark  slates  which  protected  their  timbers,  and 
deliberately  whitewashed  over  all  their  sculptures  and  orna* 


420 


THE  OPENING  OF 


ments,  in  order  to  bring  the  interior  of  the  town  into  soma 
conformity  with  the  " handsome  fronts"  of  the  hotels  and 
offices  on  the  quay. 

Hotels  and  offices,  and  "  handsome  fronts''  in  general — 
they  can  be  built  in  America  or  Australia — built  at  any 
moment,  and  in  any  height  of  splendour.  But  who  shall  give 
us  back,  when  once  destroyed,  the  habitations  of  the  French 
chivalry  and  bourgeoisie,  in  the  days  of  the  Field  of  the-  Cloth 
of  Gold  ? 

It  is  strange  that  no  one  seems  to  think  of  this  !  What  do 
men  travel  for,  in  this  Europe  of  ours  ?  Is  it  only  to  gamble 
with  French  dies — to  drink  coffee  out  of  French  porcelain— 
to  dance  to  the  beat  of  German  drums,  and  sleep  in  the  soft 
air  of  Italy  ?  Are  the  ball-room,  the  billiard-room,  and  the 
Boulevard,  the  only  attractions  that  win  us  into  wandering,  or 
tempt  us  to  repose  ?  And  when  the  time  is  come,  as  come  it 
will,  and  that  shortly,  when  the  parsimony — or  lassitude — 
which,  for  the  most  part,  are  the  only  protectors  of  the  rem- 
nants of  elder  time,  shall  be  scattered  by  the  advance  of 
civilisation — when  all  the  monuments,  preserved  only  because 
it  was  too  costly  to  destroy  them,  shall  have  been  crushed  by 
the  energies  of  the  new  world,  wTill  the  proud  nations  of  the 
twentieth  century,  looking  round  on  the  plains  of  Europe, 
disencumbered  of  their  memorial  marbles, — will  those  nations 
indeed  stand  up  with  no  other  feeling  than  one  of  triumph, 
freed  from  the  paralysis  of  precedent  and  the  entanglement  of 
memory,  to  thank  us,  the  fathers  of  progress,  that  no  sadden- 
ing shadows  can  any  more  trouble  the  enjoyments  of  the 
future, — no  moments  of  reflection  retard  its  activities  ;  and 
that  the  new-born  population  of  a  world  without  a  record  and 
without  a  ruin,  may,  in  the  fulness  of  ephemeral  felicity,  dis- 
pose itself  to  eat,  and  to  drink,  and  to  die  ? 

Is  this  verily  the  end  at  which  we  aim,  and  will  the  mission 
of  the  age  have  been  then  only  accomplished,  when  the  last 
castle  has  fallen  from  our  rocks,  the  last  cloisters  faded  from 
our  valleys,  the  last  streets,  in  which  the  dead  have  dwelt, 
been  effaced  from  our  cities,  and  regenerated  society  is  left  in 
luxurious  possession  of  towns  composed  only  of  bright  saloons, 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


421 


overlooking  gay  parterres  ?  If  this  be  indeed  our  end,  yet 
why  must  it  be  so  laboriously  accomplished  ?  Are  there  no 
new  countries  on  the  earth,  as  yet  uncrowned  by  Thorns  of 
cathedral  spires,  untormented  by  the  consciousness  of  a  past  ? 
Must  this  little  Europe — this  corner  of  our  globe,  gilded  with 
the  blood  of  old  battles,  and  grey  with  the  temples  of  old 
pieties — this  narrow  piece  of  the  world's  pavement,  worn  down 
by  so  many  pilgrims'  feet,  be  utterly  swept  and  garnished  for 
the  masque  of  the  Future  ?  Is  America  not  wide  enough  for 
the  elasticities  of  our  humanity  ?  Asia  not  rich  enough  for  its 
pride  ?  or  among  the  quiet  meadow-lands  and  solitary  hills  of 
the  old  land,  is  there  not  yet  room  enough  for  the  spreadings 
of  power,  or  the  indulgences  of  magnificence,  without  found- 
ing all  glory  upon  ruin,  and  prefacing  all  progress  with  ob- 
literation ? 

We  must  answer  these  questions  speedily,  or  we  answer 
them  in  vain.  The  peculiar  character  of  the  evil  which  is 
being  wrought  by  this  age  is  its  utter  irreparableness.  Its 
newly  formed  schools  of  art,  its  extending  galleries,  and  well- 
ordered  museums  will  assuredly  bear  some  fruit  in  time,  and 
give  once  more  to  the  popular  mind  the  pow7er  to  discern  what 
is  great,  and  the  disposition  to  protect  what  is  precious.  But 
it  will  be  too  late.  We  shall  wander  through  our  palaces  of 
crystal,  gazing  sadly  on  copies  of  pictures  torn  by  cannon- 
shot,  and  on  casts  of  sculpture  dashed  to  pieces  long  ago. 
We  shall  gradually  learn  to  distinguish  originality  and  sin- 
cerity from  the  decrepitudes  of  imitation  and  palsies  of  repe- 
tition ;  but  it  will  be  only  in  hopelessness  to  recognise  the 
truth,  that  architecture  and  painting  can  be  "  restored  "  when 
the  dead  can  be  raised, — and  not  till  then. 

Something  might  yet  be  done,  if  it  were  but  possible  thor- 
oughly to  awaken  and  alarm  the  men  whose  studies  of  arch- 
geology  have  enabled  them  to  form  an  accurate  judgment  of 
the  importance  of  the  crisis.  But  it  is  one  of  the  strange 
characters  of  the  human  mind,  necessary  indeed  to  its  peace, 
but  infinitely  destructive  of  its  power,  that  we  never  thor- 
oughly feel  the  evils  which  are  not  actually  set  before  our 
eyes.    If,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  enjoyments  of  the 


422 


THE  OPENING  OF 


palate  and  lightnesses  of  heart  of  a  London  dinner-party,  the 
walls  of  the  chamber  were  parted,  and  through  their  gap,  the 
nearest  human  beings  who  were  famishing,  and  in  misery, 
were  borne  into  the  midst  of  the  company — feasting  and 
fancy-free — if,  pale  with  sickness,  horrible  in  destitution, 
broken  by  despair,  body  by  body,  they  were  laid  upon  the 
soft  carpet,  one  beside  the  chair  of  every  guest,  would  only 
the  crumbs  of  the  dainties  be  cast  to  them — would"  only  a 
passing  glance,  a  passing  thought  be  vouchsafed  to  them  ? 
Yet  the  actual  facts,  the  real  relations  of  each  Dives  and  Laza- 
rus, are  not  altered  by  the  intervention  of  the  house  wall  be- 
tween the  table  and  the  sick-bed — by  the  few  feet  of  ground 
(how  few  !)  which  are  indeed  all  that  separate  the  merriment 
from  the  misery. 

It  is  the  same  in  the  matters  of  which  I  have  hitherto  been 
speaking.  If  every  one  of  us,  who  knows  what  food  for  the 
human  heart  there  is  in  the  great  works  of  elder  time,  could 
indeed  see  with  his  own  eyes  their  progressive  ruin  ;  if  every 
earnest  antiquarian,  happy  in  his  well-ordered  library,  and  in 
the  sense  of  having  been  useful  in  preserving  an  old  stone  or 
two  out  of  his  parish  church,  and  an  old  coin  or  two  out  of  a 
furrow  in  the  next  ploughed  field,  could  indeed  behold,  each 
morning  as  he  awaked,  the  mightiest  works  of  departed  nations 
mouldering  to  the  ground  in  disregarded  heaps ;  if  he  could 
always  have  in  clear  phantasm  before  his  eyes  the  ignorant 
monk  trampling  on  the  manuscript,  the  village  mason  striking 
down  the  monument,  the  court  painter  daubing  the  despised 
and  priceless  masterpiece  into  freshness  of  fatuity,  he  would 
not  always  smile  so  complacently  in  the  thoughts  of  the  little 
learnings  and  petty  preservations  of  his  own  immediate  sphere. 
And  if  every  man  who  has  the  interest  of  Art  and  of  History  at 
heart,  would  at  once  devote  himself  earnestly — not  to  enrich 
his  own  collection — not  even  to  enlighten  his  own  neighbours 
or  investigate  his  own  parish -territory — but  to  far-sighted  and 
/ore-sighted  endeavour  in  the  great  field  of  Europe,  there  is 
yet  time  to  do  much.  An  association  might  be  formed, 
thoroughly  organised  so  as  to  maintain  active  watchers  and 
agents  in  every  town  of  importance,  who,  in  the  first  place, 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


423 


should  furnish  the  society  With  a  perfect  account  of  every 
monument  of  interest  in  its  neighbourhood,  and  then  with  a 
yearly  or  half-yearly  report  of  the  state  of  such  monuments, 
and  of  the  changes  proposed  to  be  made  upon  them  ;  the  so- 
ciety then  furnishing  funds,  either  to  buy,  freehold,  such 
buildings  or  other  works  of  untransferable  art  as  at  any  time 
might  be  offered  for  sale,  or  to  assist  their  proprietors,  whether 
private  individuals  or  public  bodies,  in  the  maintenance  of 
such  guardianship  as  was  really  necessary  for  their  safety  ; 
and  exerting  itself,  with  all  the  influence  which  such  an  asso- 
ciation would  rapidly  command,  to  prevent  unwise  restoration, 
and  unnecessary  destruction. 

Such  a  society  would  of  course  be  rewarded  only  by  the 
consciousness  of  its  usefulness.  Its  funds  would  have  to  be 
supplied,  in  pure  self-denial,  by  its  members,  who  would  be 
required,  so  far  as  they  assisted  it,  to  give  up  the  pleasure  of 
purchasing  prints  or  pictures  for  their  own  walls,  that  they 
might  save  pictures  which  in  their  lifetime  they  might  never 
behold  ; — they  would  have  to  forego  the  enlargement  of  their 
own  estates,  that  they  might  buy,  for  a  European  property, 
ground  on  which  their  feet  might  never  tread.  But  is  it  ab- 
surd to  believe  that  men  are  capable  of  doing  this?  Is  the 
love  of  art  altogether  a  selfish  principle  in  the  heart  ?  and  are 
its  emotions  altogether  incompatible  with  the  exertions  of 
self-denial,  or  enjoyments  of  generosity  ? 

I  make  this  appeal  at  the  risk  of  incurring  only  contempt 
for  my  Utopianism.  But  I  should  forever  reproach  myself  if 
I  were  prevented  from  making  it  by  such  a  risk  ;  and  I  pray 
those  who  may  be  disposed  in  anywise  to  favour  it,  to  remem- 
ber that  it  must  be  answered  at  once  or  never.  The  next  five 
years  determine  what  is  to  be  saved — what  destroyed.  The 
restorations  have  actually  begun  like  cancers  on  every  impor- 
tant piece  of  Gothic  architecture  in  Christendom  ;  the  question 
is  only  how  much  can  yet  be  saved.  All  projects,  all  pursuits, 
having  reference  to  art,  are  at  this  moment  of  less  importance 
than  those  which  are  simply  protective.  There  is  time  enough 
for  everything  else.  Time  enough  for  teaching — time  enough 
for  criticising — time  enough  for  inventing.    But  time  little 


424      THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


enough  for  saving.  Hereafter  we  can  create,  but  it  is  now 
only  that  we  can  preserve.  By  the  exertion  of  great  national 
powers,  and  under  the  guidance  of  enlightened  monarchs,  we 
may  raise  magnificent  temples  and  gorgeous  cities  ;  we  may 
furnish  labour  for  the  idle,  and  interest  for  the  ignorant.  But 
the  power  neither  of  emperors,  nor  queens,  nor  kingdoms,  can 
ever  print  again  upon  the  sands  of  time  the  effaced  footsteps 
of  departed  generations,  or  gather  together  from  the  dust  the 
stones  which  had  been  stamped  with  the  spirit  of  our  ances- 
tors. 


THE  END* 


ST.  MARK'S  REST 

THE  HISTORY  OF  VENICE 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  HELP  OF  THE  FEW  TRAVELLERS  WHO 
STiLL  CARE  FOR  HER  MOUNTAINS 


CONTENTS 


ST.   MARK'S  REST. 

PAGE 

Preface,  ........3 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Burden  of  Tyre,    ......  7 

CHAPTER  II. 

Latrator  Anubis,      -         -         -         -         -         -         -  15 

CHAPTER  III. 

St.  James  of  the  Deep  Stream,       -  25 
CHAPTER  IV. 

St  Theodore  the  Chair  Seller,         -         -         -         *  32 
CHAPTER  V. 

The  Shadow  on  the  Dial,    -  5       -         -         *         •  43 
CHAPTER  VI. 

Red  and  White  Clouds,     -         -         -         «         -         -  49 
CHAPTER  VII. 

Divine  Right,     -  55 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Requiem,  .         -         -         -         -         -         -         -  62 

Note  on  the  Mosaics  of  St.  Mark's,  87 


SUPPLEMENT  I. 
The  Shrine  of  the  Slaves, 


SUPPLEMENT  II. 

Edited  by  J.  Ruskin. 
The  Place  of  Dragons, 

APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 

Edited  by  J.  Ruskin. 

Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus, 
Index, 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 

LECTURE  I. 


Inaugural, 


LECTURE  II. 
The  Relation  of  Art  to  Religion, 

LECTURE  III. 
The  Relation  of  Art  to  Morals, 

LECTURE  IV. 

The  Relation  of  Art  to  Use, 

LECTURE  V. 
Line,  ------ 

LECTURE  VI. 

Light,  - 

LECTURE  VII. 

Colour,  * 


ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


•  PAGE 

Preface,        -  ■  325 

Introduction,     -------  327 

PROBLEM  I. 

To  fix  the  Position  of  a  given  Point,         •         -         -  336 
PROBLEM  IL 

To  draw  a  Right  Line  between  two  given  Points,    -  338 
PROBLEM  III. 

To  find  the  Vanishing-Point  of  a  given  Horizontal  Line,  341 
PROBLEM  IV. 

Tu  find  the  Dividing-Points  of  a  given  Horizontal  Line,  346 
PROBLEM  V. 

To  draw  a  Horizontal  Line,  given  in  Position  and  Mag- 
nitude, BY  MEANS  OF  ITS  SlGHT-MAGNITUDE  AND  DIVIDING- 
JOINTS,       -  -  -  -  -  -  -  347 

PROBLEM  VI. 
to  draw  any  triangle  given  in  position  and  magnitude, 

in  a  Horizontal  Plane,         .....  350 

PROBLEM  VII. 
To  Draw  any  Rectilinear  Quadrilateral  Figure,  given 
in  Position  and  Magnitude,  in  a  Horizontal  Plane,     -  351 

PROBLEM  VIII. 
To  Draw  a  Square,  given  in  Position  and  Magnitude,  in 
a  PIorizontal  Plane,    ------  352 


PROBLEM  IX. 
To  draw  a  Square  Pillar,  given  in  Position  and  Magni- 
tude, its  Base  and*P op  being  in  Horizontal  Planes, 


PAGE 

355 


PROBLEM  X. 

To  draw  a  Pyramid,  given  in  Position  and  Magnitude,  or 
a  Square  Base  in  a  Horizontal  Plane,    -         -         -  356 

PROBLEM  XI. 

To  draw  any  Curve  in  a  Horizontal  or  Vertical  Plane,  "357 


PROBLEM  XII. 
To  divide  a  Circle  drawn  in  Perspective  into  any  given 
Number  oe  Equal  Parts,       .....  35! 

PROBLEM  XIII. 

To  draw  a  Square  given  in  Magnitude,  within  a  larger 
Square  given  in  Position  and  Magnitude;  the  Sides  oe 
the  two  Squares  being  Parallel,  ....  363 

PROBLEM  XIV. 
To  draw  a  Truncated  Circular  Cone,  given  in  Position 
and  Magnitude,  the  Truncations  being  in  Horizontal 
Planes,  and  the  Axis  of  the  Cone  vertical,     -         -  365 

PROBLEM  V. 

To  draw  an  Inclined  Line,  given  in  Position  and  Magni- 
tude,        -  367 

PROBLEM  XVI. 
To  find  the  Vanishing-Point  of  a  given  Inclined  Line,  369 

PROBLEM  XVII. 
To  find  the  Dividing  Points  of  a  given  Inclined  Line,  371 


PROBLEM  XVIII.  page 
To  find  the  Sight-Line  of  an  Inclined  Plane  in  which 
Two  Lines  are  given  in  Position,  -         -         -         -  373 

PROBLEM  XIX. 
To  find  the  Vanishing-Point  of  steepest  Lines  in  an  In- 
clined Plane  whose  Sight-Line  is  givpn,  .         .  3-4 

PROBLEM  XX. 
To  find  the  Vanishing-Point  of  Lines  perpendicular  to 
the  Surface  of  a  given  Inclined  Plane,  -         -  375 


APPENDIX. 

I. 

Practice  and  Observations  on  the  preceding  Problems,  381 


11; 

Demonstrations  which  could  not  conveniently  be  in- 
cluded in  the  Text,    -  406 


PREFACE. 


Great  nations  write  their  autobiographies  in  three  manu- 
scripts— the  book  of  their  deeds,  the  book  of  their  words,  and 
the  book  of  their  art.  Not  one  of  these  books  can  be  under- 
stood unless  we  read  the  two  others  ;  but  of  the  three,  the 
only  quite  trustworthy  one  is  the  last.  The  acts  of  a  nation 
may  be  triumphant  by  its  good  fortune  ;  and  its  words  mighty 
by  the  genius  of  a  few  of  its  children  :  but  its  art,  only  by 
the  general  gifts  and  common  sympathies  of  the  race. 

Again,  the  policy  of  a  nation  may  be  compelled,  and,  there- 
fore, not  indicative  of  its  true  character.  Its  words  may  be 
false,  while  yet  the  race  remain  unconscious  of  their  false- 
hood ;  and  no  historian  can  assuredly  detect  the  hypocrisy. 
But  art  is  always  instinctive  ;  and  the  honesty  or  pretence  of 
it  are  therefore  open  to  the  day.  The  Delphic  oracle  may  or 
may  not  have  been  spoken  by  an  honest  priestess, — we  cannot 
tell  by  the  words  of  it ;  a  liar  may  rationally  believe  them  a 
lie,  such  as  he  would  himself  have  spoken  ;  and  a  true  man, 
with  equal  reason,  may  believe  them  spoken  in  truth.  But 
there  is  no  question  possible  in  art :  at  a  glance  (when  we 
have  learned  to  read),  we  know  the  religion  of  Angelico  to  be 
sincere,  and  of  Titian,  assumed. 

The  evidence,  therefore,  of  the  third  book  is  the  most  vital 
to  our  knowledge  of  any  nation's  life  ;  and  the  history  of 
Venice  is  chiefly  written  in  such  manuscript.  It  once  lay 
open  on  the  waves,  miraculous,  like  St.  Cuthbert's  book, — a 
golden  legend  on  countless  leaves :  now,  like  Baruch's  roll,  it 
is  being  cut  with  the  penknife,  leaf  by  leaf,  and  consumed  in 
the  fire  of  the  most  brutish  of  the  fiends.  What  fragments 
of  it  may  yet  be  saved  in  blackened  scroll,  like  those  withered 
Cottonian  relics  in  our  National  library,  of  which  so  much  has 


4 


PREFACE. 


been  redeemed  by  love  and  skill,  this  book  will  help  you, 
partly,  to  read.  Partly, — for  I  know  only  myself  in  part ;  but 
what  I  tell  you,  so  far  as  it  reaches,  will  be  truer  than  you 
have  heard  hitherto,  because  founded  on  this  absolutely  faith- 
ful witness,  despised  by  other  historians,  if  not  wholly  unin- 
telligible to  them. 

I  am  obliged  to  wTrite  shortly,  being  too  old  now  to  spare 
time  for  any  thing  more  than  needful  work  ;  and  I  write  at 
speed,  careless  of  afterwards  remediable  mistakes,  of  which 
adverse  readers  may  gather  as  many  as  they  choose  :  that  to 
which  such  readers  are  adverse  will  be  found  truth  that  can 
abide  any  quantity  of  adversity. 

As  I  can  get  my  chapters  done,  they  shall  be  published  in 
this  form,  for  such  service  as  they  can  presently  do.  The 
entire  book  will  consist  of  not  more  than  twelve  such  parts, 
with  two  of  appendices,  forming  two  volumes :  if  I  can  get 
what  I  have  to  say  into  six  parts,  with  one  appendix,  all  the 
better. 

Two  separate  little  guides,  one  to  the  Academy,  the  other 
to  San  Giorgio  de'  Schiavoni,  will,  I  hope,  be  ready  with  the 
opening  numbers  of  this  book,  which  must  depend  somewhat 
on  their  collateral  illustration  ;  and  what  I  find  likely  to  be 
of  service  to  the  traveller  in  my  old  1  Stones  of  Venice  '  is  in 
course  of  re-publication,  with  further  illustration  of  the  com- 
plete works  of  Tintoret.  But  this  cannot  be  ready  till  the 
autumn  ;  and  what  I  have  said  of  the  mightiest  of  Venetian 
masters,  in  my  lecture  on  his  relation  to  Michael  Angelo,  will 
be  enough  at  present  to  enable  the  student  to  complete  the 
range  of  his  knowledge  to  the  close  of  the  story  of  'St, 
Mark's  Best.' 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  BUEDEN  OF  TYKE. 

Go  first  into  the  Piazetta,  and  stand  anywhere  in  the  shade, 
where  you  can  well  see  its  two  granite  pillars. 

Your  Murray  tells  you  that  they  are  *  famous,'  and  that  the 
one  is  "  surmounted  by  the  bronze  lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  other 
by  the  statue  of  St.  Theodore,  the  Protector  of  the  Republic." 

It  does  not,  however,  tell  you  why,  or  for  what  the  pillars 
are  'famous.'  Nor,  in  reply  to  a  question  which  might  con- 
ceivably occur  to  the  curious,  wThy  St.  Theodore  should  pro- 
tect the  Republic  by  standing  on  a  crocodile  ;  nor  whether  the 
"  bronze  lion  of  St.  Mark  "  was  cast  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer, 
— or  some  more  ancient  and  ignorant  person  ;  nor  what  these 
rugged  corners  of  limestone  rock,  at  the  bases  of  the  granite, 
were  perhaps  once  in  the  shape  of.  Have  you  any  idea  why, 
for  the  sake  of  any  such  things,  these  pillars  were  once,  or 
should  yet  be,  more  renowned  than  the  Monument,  or  the 
column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  both  of  which  are  much 
bigger  ? 

Well,  they  are  famous,  first,  in  memorial  of  something 
which  is  better  worth  remembering  than  the  fire  of  London, 
or  the  achievements  of  the  great  Napoleon.  And  they  are 
famous,  or  used  to  be,  among  artists,  because  they  are  beau- 
tiful columns  ;  nay,  as  far  as  we  old  artists  know,  the  most 
beautiful  columns  at  present  extant  and  erect  in  the  conven- 
iently visitable  world. 

Each  of  these  causes  of  their  fame  I  will  try  in  some  dim 
degree  to  set  before  you. 


8 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


I  said  they  were  set  there  in  memory  of  things, — not  of  the 
man  who  did  the  things.  They  are  to  Venice,  in  fact,  what 
the  Nelson  column  would  be  to  London,  if,  instead  of  a  statue 
of  Nelson  and  a  coil  of  rope,  on  the  top  of  it,  we  had  put  one 
of  the  four  Evangelists,  and  a  saint,  for  the  praise  of  the  Gos- 
pel and  of  Holiness  : — trusting  the  memory  of  Nelson  to  our 
own  souls. 

However,  the  memory  of  the  Nelson  of  Venice,  being  now 
seven  hundred  years  old,  has  more  or  less  faded  from  the  heart 
of  Venice  herself,  and  seldom  finds  its  way  into  the  heart  of  a 
stranger.  Somewhat  concerning  him,  though  a  stranger,  you 
may  care  to  hear,  but  you  must  hear  it  in  quiet ;  so  let  your 
boatmen  take  you  across  to  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  ;  there  you 
can  moor  your  gondola  under  the  steps  in  the  shade,  and  read 
in  peace,  looking  up  at  the  pillars  when  you  like. 

In  the  year  1117,  when  the  Doge  Ordelafo  Falier  had  been 
killed  under  the  walls  of  Zara,  Venice  chose,  for  his  successor, 
Domenico  Michiel,  Michael  of  the  Lord,  'Cattolico  nomo  e 
audace/  1  a  catholic  and  brave  man,  the  servant  of  God  and  of 
St.  Michael. 

Another  of  Mr.  Murray's  publications  for  your  general  as- 
sistance ('  Sketches  from  Venetian  History  ')  informs  you  that, 
at  this  time,  the  ambassadors  of  the  King  of  Jerusalem  (the 
second  Baldwin)  were  "  awakening  the  pious  zeal,  and  stimu- 
lating the  commercial  appetite,  of  the  Venetians." 

This  elegantly  balanced  sentence  is  meant  to  suggest  to  you 
that  the  Venetians  had  as  little  piety  as  we  have  ourselves,  and 
were  as  fond  of  money — that  article  being  the  only  one  which 
an  Englishman  could  now  think  of,  as  an  object  of  "  commer- 
cial appetite." 

The  facts  which  take  this  aspect  to  the  lively  cockney,  are, 
in  reality,  that  Venice  was  sincerely  pious,  and  intensely  covet- 
ous. But  not  covetous  merely  of  money.  She  was  covetous, 
first,  of  fame  ;  secondly,  of  kingdom  ;  thirdly,  of  pillars  of 

1  Marin  Sanuto.  Vitae  Ducum  Venetorum,  henceforward  quoted  as 
V.,  with  references  to  the  pages  of  Muratori's  edition.  See  Appendix, 
Art.  1,  which  with  following  appendices  will  be  given  in  a  separate 
number  as  soon  as  there  are  enough  to  form  one. 


THfi  BURDEN  OF  TYRE. 


9 


marble  and  granite,  such  as  these  that  you  see;  lastly,  and 
quite  principally,  of  the  relics  of  good  people.  Such  an  '  ap- 
petite/ glib-tongued  cockney  friend,  is  not  wholly  'commer- 
cial.' 

To  the  nation  in  this  religiously  covetous  hunger,  Baldwin 
appealed,  a  captive  to  the  Saracen.  The  Pope  sent  letters  to 
press  his  suit,  and  the  Doge  Michael  called  the  State  to  coun- 
cil in  the  church  of  St.  Mark.  There  he,  and  the  Primate  of 
Venice,  and  her  nobles,  and  such  of  the  people  as  had  due  en- 
trance with  them,  by  way  of  beginning  the  business,  cele- 
brated the  Mass  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Then  the  Primate  read 
the  Pope's  letters  aloud  to  the  assembly  ;  then  the  Doge  made 
the  assembly  a  speech.  And  there  was  no  opposition  party 
in  that  parliament  to  make  opposition  speeches  ;  and  there 
were  no  reports  of  the  speech  next  morning  in  any  Times 
or  Daily  Telegraph.  And  there  were  no  plenipotentiaries 
sent  to  the  East,  and  back  again.  But  the  vote  passed  for 
war. 

The  Doge  left  his  son  in  charge  of  the  State  ;  and  sailed  for 
the  Holy  Land,  with  forty  galleys  and  twenty-eight  beaked 
ships  of  battle — "ships  which  were  painted  with  divers 
colors,"  1  far  seen  in  pleasant  splendor. 

Some  faded  likeness  of  them,  twenty  years  ago,  might  be 
seen  in  the  painted  sails  of  the  fishing  boats  which  lay  crowded, 
in  lowly  lustre,  where  the  development  of  civilization  now  only 
brings  black  steam-tugs,2  to  bear  the  people  of  Venice  to  the 
bathing-machines  of  Lido,  covering  their  Ducal  Palace  with 
soot,  and  consuming  its  sculptures  with  sulphurous  acid. 

The  beaked  ships  of  the  Doge  Michael  had  each  a  hundred 
oars, — each  oar  pulled  by  two  men,  not  accommodated  with 
sliding  seats,  but  breathed  well  for  their  great  boat-race  be- 
tween the  shores  of  Greece  and  Italy, — whose  names,  alas,  with 

1  4  The  Acts  of  God,  by  the  Franks.'  Afterwards  quoted  as  G.  (Gesta 
Dei).    Again,  see  Appendix,  Art.  1. 

2  The  sails  may  still  be  seen  scattered  farther  east  along  the  Riva  ;  but 
the  beauty  of  the  scene,  which  gave  some  image  of  the  past,  was  in  their 
combination  with  the  Ducal  Palace,— not  with  the  new  French  and  Eng 
lish  Restaurants. 


10 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


the  names  of  their  trainers,  are  noteless  in  the  journals  of  the 
barbarous  time. 

They  beat  their  way  across  the  waves,  nevertheless,1  to  the 
place  by  the  sea-beach  in  Palestine  where  Dorcas  worked  for 
the  poor,  and  St.  Peter  lodged  with  his  namesake  tanner. 
There,  showing  first  but  a  squadron  of  a  few  ships,  they  drew 
the  Saracen  fleet  out  to  sea,  and  so  set  upon  them. 

And  the  Doge,  in  his  true  Duke's  place,  first  in  his  beaked 
ship,  led  for  the  Saracen  admiral's,  struck  her,  and  sunk  her. 
And  his  host  of  falcons  followed  to  the  slaughter  :  and  to  the 
prey  also, — for  the  battle  was  not  without  gratification  of  the 
commercial  appetite.  The  Venetians  took  a  number  of  ships 
containing  precious  silks,  and  "  a  quantity  of  drugs  and  pep- 
per." 

After  which  battle,  the  Doge  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  there 
to  take  further  counsel  concerning  the  use  of  his  Venetian 
power  ;  and,  being  received  there  with  honor,  kept  his  Christ- 
mas in  the  mountain  of  the  Lord. 

In  the  council  of  war  that  followed,  debate  became  stern 
whether  to  undertake  the  siege  of  Tyre  or  Ascalon.  The 
judgments  of  men  being  at  pause,  the  matter  was  given  to  the 
judgment  of  God.  They  put  the  names  of  the  two  cities  in 
an  urn,  on  the  altar  of  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre.  An  or- 
phan child  was  taken  to  draw  the  lots,  who,  putting  his  hand 
into  the  urn,  drew  out  the  name  of  Tyke. 

Which  name  you  may  have  heard  before,  and  read  perhaps 
words  concerning  her  fall — careless  always  when  the  fall  took 
place,  or  whose  swTord  smote  her. 

She  was  still  a  glorious  city,  still  queen  of  the  treasures  ci 
the  sea ; 2  chiefly  renowned  for  her  work  in  glass  and  in 
purple  ;  set  in  command  of  a  rich  plain,  "irrigated  with  plen- 
tiful and  perfect  waters,  famous  for  its  sugar-canes  ;  £  fortissi- 

1  Oars,  of  course,  for  calm,  and  adverse  winds,  only  ;  bright  sails  full 
to  the  helpful  breeze. 

2  "  Passava  tuttavia  per  la  pin  popolosa  e  commerciante  di  Siria."— - 
Romanin,  1  Storia  Documentata  di  Venezia,'  Venice,  1853,  vol.  ii, 
whence  I  take  what  else  is  said  in  the  text ;  but  see  in  the  Gesta  Dei, 
the  older  Marin  Sanuto,  lib.  iii.,  pars.  vi.  cap.  xii.,  and  pars.  xiv.  cap.  ii 


THE  BURDEN  OF  TYRE. 


11 


ma,'  she  herself,  upon  her  rock,  double  walled  towards  the 
sea,  treble  walled  to  the  land  ;  and,  to  all  seeming,  uncon- 
querable but  by  famine." 

For  their  help  in  this  great  siege,  the  Venetians  made  their 
conditions. 

That  in  every  city  subject  to  the  King  of  Jerusalem,  the 
Venetians  should  have  a  street,  a  square,  a  bath,  and  a  bake- 
house :  that  is  to  say,  a  place  to  live  in,  a  place  to  meet  in, 
and  due  command  of  water  and  bread,  all  free  of  tax  ;  that 
they  should  use  their  own  balances,  weights,  and  measures 
(not  by  any  means  false  ones,  you  will  please  to  observe)  ; 
and  that  the  King  of  Jerusalem  should  pay  annually  to  the 
Doge  of  Venice,  on  the  Feast  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  three 
hundred  Saracen  byzants. 

Such,  with  due  approval  of  the  two  Apostles  of  the  Gen- 
tiles, being  the  claims  of  these  Gentile  mariners  from  the 
King  of  the  Holy  City,  the  same  were  accepted  in  these  terms  : 
"In  the  name  of  the  Holy  and  undivided  Trinity  of  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  these  are  the  treaties 
which  Baldwin,  second  King  of  the  Latins  in  Jerusalem,  made 
with  St.  Mark  and  Dominicus  Michael " ;  and  ratified  by  the 
signatures  of — 

Guarimond,  Patriarch  of  Jerusalem  ; 
Ebremar,  Archbishop  of  Csesarea  ; 
Bernard,  Archbishop  of  Nazareth  ; 
Asquirin,  Bishop  of  Bethlehem  ; 

Goldumus,  Abbot  of  St.  Mary's,  in  the  Vale  of  Jehoshaphat ; 
Acchard,  Prior  of  the  Temple  of  the  Lord  ; 
Gerard,  Prior  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  ; 
Arnard,  Prior  of  Mount  Syon  ;  and 

Hugo  de  Pagano,  Master  of  the  Soldiers  of  the  Temple. 
With  others  many,  whose  names  are  in  the  chronicle 
of  Andrea  Dandolo. 

And  thereupon  the  French  crusaders  by  land,  and  the  Vene- 
tians by  sea,  drew  line  of  siege  round  Tyre. 

You  will  not  expect  me  here,  at  St.  George's  steps,  to  give 


Sl\  MARK  S  REST. 


account  of  the  various  mischief  done  on  each  other  with  the 
dart,  the  stone,  and  the  fire,  by  the  Christian  and  Saracen, 
day  by  day.  Both  were  at  last  wearied,  when  report  came  of 
help  to  the  Tyrians  by  an  army  from  Damascus,  and  a  fleet 
from  Egypt.  Upon  which  news,  discord  arose  in  the  invad- 
ing camp  ;  and  rumor  went  abroad  that  the  Venetians  would 
desert  their  allies,  and  save  themselves  in  their  fleet.  These 
reports  coming  to  the  ears  of  the  Doge,  he  took  (according  to 
tradition)  the  sails  from  his  ships'  masts,  and  the  rudders 
from  their  sterns,1  and  brought  sails,  rudders,  and  tackle 
ashore,  and  into  the  French  camp,  adding  to  these,  for  his 
pledge,  "grave  words." 

The  French  knights,  in  shame  of  their  miscreance,  bade 
him  rent  his  ships.  The  Count  of  Tripoli  and  William  of 
Bari  were  sent  to  make  head  against  the  Damascenes ;  and 
the  Doge,  leaving  ships  enough  to  blockade  the  port,  sailed 
himself,  with  what  could  be  spared,  to  find  the  Egyptian  fleet. 
He  sailed  to  Alexandria,  showed  his  sails  along  the  coast  in 
defiance,  and  returned. 

Meantime  his  coin  for  payment  of  his  mariners  was  spent. 
He  did  not  care  to  depend  on  remittances.  He  struck  a 
coinage  of  leather,  with  St.  Mark's  and  his  own  shield  on  it, 
promising  his  soldiers  that  for  every  leathern  rag,  so  signed, 
at  Venice,  there  should  be  given  a  golden  zecchin.  And  his 
word  was  taken  ;  and  his  word  was  kept. 

So  the  steady  siege  went  on,  till  the  Tyrians  lost  hope,  and 
asked  terms  of  surrender. 

They  obtained  security  of  person  and  property,  to  the  in- 
dignation of  the  Christian  soldiery,  who  had  expected  the 
sack  of  Tyre.    The  city  was  divided  into  three  parts,  of  which 

1  By  doing  this  he  left  his  fleet  helpless  before  an  enemy,  for  naval 
warfare  at  this  time  depended  wholly  on  the  fine  steering  of  the  ships 
at  the  moment  of  onset.  But  for  all  ordinary  manoeuvres  necessary 
for  the  safety  of  the  fleet  in  harbor,  their  oars  were  enough.  Andrea 
Dandolo  says  he  took  a  plank  ("tabula")  out  of  each  ship, — a  more 
fatal  injury.  I  suspect  the  truth  to  have  been  that  he  simply  un- 
shipped the  rudders,  and  brought  them  into  camp  ;  a  grave  speechless 
symbol,  earnest  enough,  but  not  costly  of  useless  labor. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  TIRE. 


13 


two  were  given  to  the  King  of  Jerusalem,  the  third  to  the 
Venetians. 

How  Baldwin  governed  his  two  thirds,  I  do  not  know,  nor 
what  capacity  there  was  in  the  Tyrians  of  being  governed  at 
all.  But  the  Venetians,  for  their  third  part,  appointed  a 
6bailo'  to  do  civil  justice,  and  a  'viscount'  to  answer  for  mili- 
tary defence  ;  and  appointed  magistrates  under  these,  who, 
on  entering  office,  took  the  following  oath :  — 

"  I  swear  on  the  holy  Gospels  of  God,  that  sincerely  and 
without  fraud  I  will  do  right  to  all  men  who  are  under  the 
jurisdiction  of  Venice  in  the  city  of  Tyre  ;  and  to  every  other 
who  shall  be  brought  before  me  for  judgment,  according  to 
the  ancient  use  and  law  of  the  city.  And  so  far  as  I  know 
.not,  and  am  left  uninformed  of  that,  I  will  act  by  such  rule  as 
shall  appear  to  me  just,  according  to  the  appeal  and  answer. 
Farther,  I  will  give  faithful  and  honest  counsel  to  the  Bailo 
and  the  Viscount,  when  lam  asked  for  it  ;  and  if  they  share  any 
secret  with  me,  I  will  keep  it ;  neither  will  I  procure  by 
fraud,  good  to  a  friend,  nor  evil  to  an  enemy."  And  thus  the 
Venetian  state  planted  stable  colonies  in  Asia. 

Thus  far  Bomanin ;  to  whom,  nevertheless,  it  does  not 
occur  to  ask  what  '  establishing  colonies  in  Asia '  meant  for 
Venice.  Whether  they  were  in  Asia,  Africa,  or  the  Island  of 
Atlantis,  did  not  at  this  time  greatly  matter  ;  but  it  mattered 
infinitely  that  they  were  colonies  living  in  friendly  relations 
with  the  Saracen,  and  that  at  the  very  same  moment  arose 
cause  of  quite  other  than  friendly  relations,  between  the  Ve- 
netian and  the  Greek. 

For  while  the  Doge  Michael  fought  for  the  Christian  king 
at  Jerusalem,  the  Christian  emperor  at  Byzantium  attacked 
the  defenceless  states  of  Venice,  on  the  mainland  of  Dalmatia, 
and  seized  their  cities.  Whereupon  the  Doge  set  sail  home- 
wards, fell  on  the  Greek  islands  of  the  Egean,  and  took  the 
spoil  of  them  ;  seized  Cephalonia  ;  recovered  the  lost  cities  of 
Dalmatia  ;  compelled  the  Greek  emperor  to  sue  for  peace, — 
gave  it,  in  angry  scorn  ;  and  set  his  sails  at  last  for  his  own 
Bialto,  with  the  sceptres  of  Tyre  and  of  Byzantium  to  lay  at 
the  feet  of  Venice. 


14 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


Spoil  also  he  brought,  enough,  of  such  commercial  kind  asf 
Venice  valued.  These  pillars  that  you  look  upon,  of  rosy  and 
gray  rock  ;  and  the  dead  bodies  of  St.  Donato  and  St.  Isidore. 

He  thus  returned,  in  1126 :  Fate  had  left  him  yet  four 
years  to  live.  In  which,  among  other  homely  work,  he  made 
the  beginning  for  you  (oh  much  civilized  friend,  you  will  at 
least  praise  him  in  this)  of  these  mighty  gaseous  illuminations 
by  which  Venice  provides  for  your  seeing  her  shop- wares  by 
night,  and  provides  against  your  seeing  the  moon,  or  stars,  or 
sea. 

For,  finding  the  narrow  streets  of  Venice  dark,  and  oppor- 
tune for  robbers,  he  ordered  that  at  the  heads  of  them  there 
should  be  set  little  tabernacles  for  images  of  the  saints,  and 
before  each  a  light  kept  burning.  Thus  he  commands, — not 
as  thinking  that  the  saints  themselves  had  need  of  candles, 
but  that  they  would  gladly  grant  to  poor  mortals  in  danger, 
material  no  less  than  heavenly  light. 

And  having  in  this  pretty  and  lowly  beneficence  ended 
what  work  he  had  to  do  in  this  world,  feeling  his  strength 
fading,  he  laid  down  sword  and  ducal  robe  together ;  and  be- 
came a  monk,  in  this  island  of  St.  George,  at  the  shore  of 
which  you  are  reading  :  but  the  old  monastery  on  it  which 
sheltered  him  was  destroyed  long  ago,  that  this  stately  Palla- 
dian  portico  might  be  built,  to  delight  Mr.  Eustace  on  his 
classical  tour, — and  other  such  men  of  renown, — and  persons 
of  excellent  taste,  like  yourself. 

And  there  he  died,  and  was  buried  ;  and  there  he  lies,  vir- 
tually tombless  ;  the  place  of  his  grave  you  find  by  going 
down  the  steps  on  your  right  hand  behind  the  altar,  leading 
into  what  was  yet  a  monastery  before  the  last  Italian  revolu- 
tion, but  is  now  a  finally  deserted  loneliness. 

Over  his  grave  there  is  a  heap  of  frightful  modern  uphol- 
sterer's work, — Longhena's  ;  his  first  tomb  (of  which  you  may 
see  some  probable  likeness  in  those  at  the  side  of  St.  John 
and  St.  Paul)  being  removed  as  too  modest  and  time  worn  for 
the  vulgar  Venetian  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  and  this, 
that  you  see,  put  up  to  please  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the 
beadles. 


LATRATOR  ANUBIS. 


15 


The  old  inscription  was  copied  on  the  rotten  black  slate 
which  is  breaking  away  in  thin  flakes,  dimmed  by  dusty  salt. 
The  beginning  of  it  yet  remains:  "Here  lies  the  Terror  of 
the  Greeks."    Read  also  the  last  lines  : 

"  Whosoever  thou  art,  who  comest  to  behold  this  tomb  o* 
his,  bow  thyself  down  before  god,  because  of  him." 

Of  these  things,  then,  the  two  pillars  before  you  are 
'famous'  in  memorial.  What  in  themselves  they  possess 
deserving  honor,  we  will  next  try  to  discern.  But  you  must 
row  a  little  nearer  to  the  pillars,  so  as  to  see  them  clearly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LATRATOR  ANUBIS. 

I  said  these  pillars  were  the  most  beautiful  known  to  me  , 
but  you  must  understand  this  saying  to  be  of  the  whole  pillar 
— group  of  base,  shaft,  and  capital — not  only  of  their  shafts. 

You  know  so  much  of  architecture,  perhaps,  as  that  an 
'  order '  of  it  is  the  system,  connecting  a  shaft  with  its  capital 
and  cornice.  And  you  can  surely  feel  so  mucli  of  architect- 
ure, as  that,  if  you  took  the  heads  off  these  pillars,  and  set 
the  granite  shafts  simply  upright  on  the  pavement,  they 
would  perhaps  remind  you  of  ninepins,  or  rolling-pins,  but 
would  in  no  wise  contribute  either  to  respectful  memory  of 
the  Doge  Michael,  or  to  the  beauty  of  the  Piazzetta. 

Their  beauty,  which  has  been  so  long  instinctively  felt  by 
artists,  consists  then  first  in  the  proportion,  and  then  in  the 
propriety  of  their  several  parts.  Do  not  confuse  proportion 
with  propriety.  An  elephant  is  as  properly  made  as  a  stag ; 
but  he  is  not  so  gracefully  proportioned.  In  fine  architect- 
ure, and  all  other  fine  arts,  grace  and  propriety  meet. 

I  will  take  the  fitness  first.  You  see  that  both  these  pillars 
have  wide  bases  of  successive  steps.1    You  can  feel  that  these 

1  Restored, — but  they  always  must  have  had  them,  in  some  such  pro- 
portion. 


16 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


would  be  '  improper '  round  the  pillars  of  an  arcade  in  which 
people  walked,  because  they  would  be  in  the  way.  But  they 
are  proper  here,  because  they  tell  us  the  pillar  is  to  be  iso- 
lated, and  that  it  is  a  monument  of  importance.  Look  from 
these  shafts  to  the  arcade  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Its  pillars 
have  been  found  fault  with  for  wanting  bases.  But  they 
were  meant  to  be  walked  beside  without  stumbling. 

Next,  you  see  the  tops  of  the  capitals  of  the  great  pillars 
spread  wide,  into  flat  tables.  You  can  feel,  surely,  that  these 
are  entirely  '  proper/  to  afford  room  for  the  statues  they  are 
to  receive,  and  that  the  edges,  which  bear  no  weight,  may 
'  properly  '  extend  widely.  But  suppose  a  weight  of  superin- 
cumbent wall  were  to  be  laid  on  these  pillars  ?  The  extent 
of  capital  which  is  now  graceful,  would  then  be  weak  and 
ridiculous. 

Thus  far  of  propriety,  whose  simple  laws  are  soon  satisfied  : 
next,  of  proportion. 

You  see  that  one  of  the  shafts — the  St.  Theodore's — is  much 
more  slender  than  the  other. 

One  general  law  of  proportion  is  that  a  slender  shaft  should 
have  a  slender  capital,  and  a  ponderous  shaft,  a  ponderous 
one. 

But  had  this  law  been  here  followed,  the  companion  pillars 
would  have  instantly  become  ill-matched.  The  eye  would 
have  discerned  in  a  moment  the  fat  pillar  and  the  lean.  They 
would  never  have  become  the  fraternal  pillars — ■  the  two  '  of 
the  Piazzetta. 

"With  subtle,  scarcely  at  first  traceable,  care,  the  designer 
varied  the  curves  and  weight  of  his  capitals  ;  and  gave  the 
massive  head  to  the  slender  shaft,  and  the  slender  capital  to 
the  massive  shaft.  And  thus  they  stand  in  symmetry,  and 
un  contending  equity. 

Next,  for  the  form  of  these  capitals  themselves,  and  the 
date  of  them. 

You  will  find  in  the  guide-books  that  though  the  shafts 
were  brought  home  by  the  Doge  in  1126,  no  one  could  he 
found  able  to  set  them  up,  until  the  year  1171,  when  a  certain 
Lombard,  called  Nicholas  of  the  Barterers,  raised  them,  and 


LATRATOR  ANUBIS. 


17 


for  reward  of  such  engineering  skill,  bargained  that  lie  might 
keep  tables  for  forbidden  games  of  chance  between  the  shafts. 
Whereupon  the  Senate  ordered  that  executions  should  also 
take  place  between  them. 

You  read,  and  smile,  and  pass  on  with  a  dim  sense  of  hav- 
ing heard  something  like  a  good  story. 

Yes  ;  of  which  I  will  pray  you  to  remark,  that  at  that  un* 
civilized  time,  games  of  chance  were  forbidden  in  Venice,  and 
that  in  these  modern  civilized  times  they  are  not  forbidden  ; 
and  one,  that  of  the  lottery,  even  promoted  by  the  Govern- 
ment as  gainful  :  and  that  perhaps  the  Venetian  people  might 
find  itself  more  prosperous  on  the  whole  by  obeying  that  law 
of  their  fathers,1  and  ordering  that  no  lottery  should  be  drawn, 
except  in  a  place  where  somebody  had  been  hanged.2  But 
the  curious  thing  is  that  while  this  pretty  story  is  never  for- 
gotten, about  the  raising  of  the  pillars,  nothing  is  ever  so 
much  as  questioned  about  who  put  their  tops  and  bases  to 
them  ! — nothing  about  the  resolution  that  lion  or  saint  should 
stand  to  preach  on  them, — nothing  about  the  Saint's  sermon, 
or  the  Lion's  ;  nor  enough,  even,  concerning  the  name  or  oc- 
cupation of  Nicholas  the  Barterer,  to  lead  the  pensive  traveller 
into  a  profitable  observance  of  the  appointment  of  Fate,  that 
in  this  Tyre  of  the  "West,  the  city  of  merchants,  her  monu- 
ments of  triumph  over  the  Tyre  of  the  East  should  forever 
stand  signed  by  a  tradition  recording  the  stern  judgment  of 
her  youth  against  the  gambler's  lust,  which  was  the  passion 
of  her  old  age. 

But  now  of  the  capitals  themselves.  If  you  are  the  least 
interested  in  architecture,  should  it  not  be  of  some  import- 
ance to  you  to  note  the  style  of  them  ?  Twelfth  century 
capitals,  as  fresh  as  when  they  came  from  the  chisel,  are  not 
to  be  seen  every  day,  or  everywhere — much  less  capitals  like 
these,  a  fathom  or  so  broad  and  high  !    And  if  you  know  the 

1  Have  you  ever  read  the  '  Fortunes  of  Nigel  \  with  attention  w  th€ 
moral  of  it  ? 

2  It  orders  now  that  the  drawing  should  be  at  the  foot  of  St.  Mark's 
Campanile  ;  and,  weekly,  the  mob  of  Venice,  gathered  for  the  event, 
fills  the  marble  porches  with  its  anxious  murmur. 


18 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


architecture  of  England  and  France  in  the  twelfth  century, 
you  will  find  these  capitals  still  more  interesting  from  theii 
extreme  difference  in  manner.  Not  the  least  like  our  clumps 
and  humps  and  cushions,  are  they?  For  these  are  living 
Greek  work,  still ;  not  savage  Norman  or  clumsy  Northum- 
brian, these  ;  but  of  pure  Corinthian  race  ;  yet,  with  Venetian 
practicalness  of  mind,  solidified  from  the  rich  clusters  of  light 
leafage  which  were  their  ancient  form.  You  must  find  time 
for  a  little  practical  cutting  of  capitals  yourself,  before  you 
will  discern  the  beauty  of  these.  There  is  nothing  like  a 
little  work  with  the  fingers  for  teaching  the  eyes. 

As  you  go  home  to  lunch,  therefore,  buy  a  pound  of  Gruyere 
cheese,  or  of  any  other  equally  tough  and  bad,  with  as  few 
holes  in  it  as  may  be.  And  out  of  this  pound  of  cheese,  at 
lunch,  cut  a  solid  cube  as  neatly  as  you  can. 

Now  all  treatment  of  capitals  depends  primarily  on  the  way 
in  which  a  cube  of  stone,  like  this  of  cheese,  is  left  by  the 
carver  square  at  the  top,  to  carry  the  wTall,  and  cut  round  at 
the  bottom  to  fit  its  circular  pillar.  Proceed  therefore  to  cut 
your  cube  so  that  it  may  fit  a  round  pillar  of  cheese  at  the 
bottom,  such  as  is  extracted,  for  tasting,  by  magnanimous 
cheesemongers,  for  customers  worth  their  while.  Your  first 
natural  proceeding  will  of  course  be  to  cut  off  four  corners  ; 
so  making  an  octagon  at  the  bottom,  which  is  a  good  part  of 
the  way  to  a  circle.  Now  if  you  cut  off  those  corners  with 
rather  a  long,  sweeping  cut,  as  if  you  were  cutting  a  pencil, 
you  will  see  that  already  you  have  got  very  near  the  shape  of 
the  Piazzetta  capitals.  But  you  will  come  still  nearer,  if  you 
make  each  of  these  simple  corner-cuts  into  two  narrower 
ones,  thus  bringing  the  lower  portion  of  your  bit  of  cheese 
into  a  twelve-sided  figure.  And  you  will  see  that  each  of 
these  double-cut  angles  now  has  taken  more  or  less  the  shape 
of  a  leaf,  with  its  central  rib  at  the  angle.  And  if,  further, 
with  such  sculpturesque  and  graphic  talent  as  may  be  in  you, 
you  scratch  out  the  real  shape  of  a  leaf  at  the  edge  of  the 
cuts  and  run  furrows  from  its  outer  lobes  to  the  middle, — 
behold,  you  have  your  Piazzetta  capital.  All  but  have  it,  I 
should  say  ;  only  this  '  all  but 5  is  nearly  all  the  good  of  it. 


LATRATOR  ANUBI8. 


19 


cvhich  comes  cf  the  exceeding  fineness  with  which  the  simple 
curves  are  drawn,  and  reconciled. 

Nevertheless,  you  will  have  learned,  if  sagacious  in  such 
matters,  by  this  quarter  of  an  hour's  carving,  so  much  of 
architectural  art  as  will  enable  you  to  discern,  and  to  enjoy 
the  treatment  of,  ail  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  century  capi- 
tals in  Venice,  which,  without  exception,  when  of  native  cut- 
ting, are  concave  bells  like  this,  with  either  a  springing  leaf, 
or  a  bending  boss  of  stone  which  would  become  a  leaf  if  it 
were  furrowed,  at  the  angles.  But  the  fourteenth  century 
brings  a  change. 

Before  I  tell  you  what  took  place  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
you  must  cut  yourself  another  cube  of  Gruyere  cheese.  You 
see  that  in  the  one  you  have  made  a  capital  of  already,  a  good 
weight  of  cheese  out  of  the  cube  has  been  cut  away  in  taper- 
ing down  those  long-leaf  corners.  Suppose  you  try  now  to 
make  a  capital  of  it  without  cutting  away  so  much  cheese.  If 
you  begin  half  way  down  the  side,  with  a  shorter  but  more 
curved  cut,  you  may  reduce  the  base  to  the  same  form,  and — 
supposing  you  are  working  in  marble  instead  of  cheese — you 
have  not  only  much  less  trouble,  but  you  keep  a  much  more 
solid  block  of  stone  to  bear  superincumbent  weight. 

Now  you  may  go  back  to  the  Piazzetta,  and,  thence  pro- 
ceeding, so  as  to  get  well  in  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  look 
first  to  the  Greek  shaft  capitals,  and  then  to  those  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  upper  arcade.  You  will  recognize,  especially  in 
those  nearest  the  Ponte  della  Paglia  (at  least,  if  you  have  an 
eye  in  your  head),  the  shape  of  your  second  block  of  Gruyere, 
— decorated,  it  is  true,  in  manifold  ways,  but  essentially 
shaped  like  your  most  cheaply  cut  block  of  cheese.  Modern 
architects,  in  imitating  these  capitals,  can  reach  as  far  as — - 
imitating  your  Gruyere.  Not  being  able  to  decorate  the 
block  when  they  have  got  it,  they  declare  that  decoration  is 
"  a  superficial  merit." 

Yes, — very  superficial.  Eyelashes  and  eyebrows — lips  and 
nostrils — chin-dimples  and  curling  hair,  are  all  very  superficial 
things,  wherewith  Heaven  decorates  the  human  skull ;  making 
the  maid's  face  of  it,  or  the  knight's.    Nevertheless,  what  I 


20 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


want  you  to  notice  now,  is  but  the  form  of  the  block  of  Istrian 
stone,  usually  with  a  spiral,  more  or  less  elaborate,  on  each  of 
its  projecting  angles.  For  there  is  infinitude  of  histor}'  in 
that  solid  angle,  prevailing  over  the  light  Greek  leaf.  That  is 
related  to  our  humps  and  clumps  at  Durham  and  Winchester. 
Here  is,  indeed,  Norman  temper,  prevailing  over  Byzantine  ; 
and  it  means, — the  outcome  of  that  quarrel  of  Michael  with 
the  Greek  Emperor.  It  means — western  for  eastern  life,  in 
the  mind  of  Venice.  It  means  her  fellowship  with  the  west- 
ern chivalry  ;  her  triumph  in  the  Crusades, — triumph  over 
her  own  foster  nurse,  Byzantium. 

Which  significances  of  it,  and  many  others  with  them,  if 
we  would  follow,  we  must  leave  our  stone-cutting  for  a  little 
while,  and  map  out  the  chart  of  Venetian  history  from  its  be- 
ginning into  such  masses  as  we  may  remember  without  con- 
fusion. 

But,  since  this  will  take  time,  and  we  cannot  quite  tell  how 
long  it  may  be  before  we  get  back  to  the  twelfth  century 
again,  and  to  our  Piazzetta  shafts,  let  me  complete  what  I  can 
tell  you  of  these  at  once. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  is  a  splendid  piece 
of  eleventh  or  twelfth  century  bronze.  I  know  that  by  the 
style  of  him  ;  but  have  never  found  out  where  he  came  from.1 
I  may  now  chance  on  it,  however,  at  any  moment  in  other  quests. 
Eleventh  or  twelfth  century,  the  Lion — fifteenth,  or  later,  his 
wings  ;  very  delicate  in  feather- workmanship,  but  with  little 
lift  or  strike  in  them  ;  decorative  mainly.  Without  doubt  his 
first  wings  were  thin  sheets  of  beaten  bronze,  shred  into  plu- 
mage ;  far  wider  in  their  sweep  than  these.3 

1  "He" — the  actual  piece  of  forged  metal,  I  mean.  (See  Appendix 
II.  for  account  of  its  recent  botchings.)  Your  modern  English  explain- 
ers of  him  have  never  heard,  I  observe,  of  any  such  person  as  an 
4  Evangelist,'  or  of  any  Christian  symbol  of  such  a  being !  See  page  42 
of  Mr.  Adams'  '  Venice  Past  and  Present '  (Edinburgh  and  New  York, 
1852). 

2  I  am  a  little  proud  of  this  guess,  for  before  correcting  this  sentence 
in  type,  I  found  the  sharp  old  wings  represented  faithfully  in  the  wood 
cut  of  Venice  in  1480,  in  the  Correr  Museum.  Durer,  in  1500,  draws 
the  present  wings  ;  so  that  we  get  their  date  fixed  within  twenty  years, 


LATH  A  TOE  ANUBIS. 


21 


The  statue  of  St.  Theodore,  whatever  its  age,  is  wholly 
without  merit.  I  can't  make  it  out  myself,  nor  find  record  of 
it :  in  a  stonemason's  yard,  I  should  have  passed  it  as  modern. 
But  this  merit  of  the  statue  is  here  of  little  consequence, — 
the  power  of  it  being  wholly  in  its  meaning. 

St.  Theodore  represents  the  power  of  the  Spirit  of  God  in 
all  noble  and  useful  animal  life,  conquering  what  is  venomous, 
useless,  or  in  decay  :  he  differs  from  St.  George  in  contending 
with  material  evil,  instead  of  with  sinful  passion :  the  croco- 
dile on  which  he  stands  is  the  Dragon  of  Egypt ;  slime-be- 
gotten of  old,  worshipped  in  its  malignant  power,  for  a  God. 
St.  Theodore's  martyrdom  was  for  breaking  such  idols  ;  and 
with  beautiful  instinct  Venice  took  him  in  her  earliest  days 
for  her  protector  and  standard-bearer,  representing  the  heav- 
enly life  of  Christ  in  men,  prevailing  over  chaos  and  the  deep. 

"With  far  more  than  instinct, — with  solemn  recognition,  and 
prayerful  vow,  she  took  him  in  the  pride  of  her  chivalry,  in 
mid-thirteenth  century,  for  the  master  of  that  chivalry  in  their 
gentleness  ,  of  home  ministries.  The  c  Mariegola '  (Mother- 
Law)  of  the  school  of  St.  Theodore,  by  kind  fate  yet  preserved 
to  us,  contains  the  legend  they  believed,  in  its  completeness, 
and  their  vow  of  service  and  companionship  in  all  its  terms. 

Either  of  which,  if  you  care  to  understand, — several  other 
matters  and  writings  must  be  understood  first  ;  and,  among 
others,  a  pretty  piece  of  our  own  much  boasted, — how  little 
obeyed, — Mother-Law,  sung  still  by  statute  in  our  churches 
at  least  once  in  the  month  ;  the  eighty-sixth  Psalm.  "  Her 
foundations  are  in  the  holy  Mountains."  I  hope  you  can  go 
on  with  it  by  heart,  or  at  least  have  your  Bible  in  your  port- 
manteau. In  the  remote  possibility  that  you  may  have  thought 
its  carriage  unnecessarily  expensive,  here  is  the  Latin  psalm, 
with  its  modern  Italian-  Catholic  1  translation  ;  watery  enough, 
this  last,  but  a  clear  and  wTholesome,  though  little  vapid,  dilu- 
tion and  diffusion  of  its  text, — making  much  intelligible  to 

1  From  tlie  *  Uffizio  della  B.  V.  Maria,  Italiano  e  Latino,  per  tutti  i 
tempi  deli'  anno,  del  Padre  G.  Croiset,'  a  well  printed  and  most  service* 
able  little  duodecimo  volume,  for  any  one  wishing  to  know  somewhat 
of  Roman  Catholic  offices.    Published  in  Milan  and  Venice. 


22 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


the  Protestant  reader,  which  his  ' private  judgment '  might 
occasionally  have  been  at  fault  in. 


Fundamenta  eius  in  mon- 
tibus  Sanctis  :  diligit  Dominus 
portas  Sion  super  omnia  taber- 
nacula  Iacob. 

Gloriosa  dicta  sunt  de  te, 
civitas  Dei. 

Mem  or  ero  Rahab  et  Baby- 
lonis,  scientium  me. 

Ecce  alienigense,  et  Tyrus, 
et  populus  iEthiopum  hi  fue- 
runt  illic. 

Numquid  Sion  dicet :  Homo 
et  homo  natus  est  in  ea,  et  ipse 
fundavit  earn  Altissimus  ? 

Dominus  narrabit  in  scrip- 
turis  populorum  et  principum : 
horum  qui  fuerunt  in  ea. 

Sicut  lsetantium  omnium 
habitatio  est  in  te. 


Gerusalemme  e  fabbricata  sopra 
i  santi  monti :  Iddio  ne  prende  piii 
cura,  e  Y  ama  piu  che  tutti  gli  altri 
luoglii  che  dal  suo  popolo  sono 
abitati. 

Quante  cose  tutte  piene  di  lode 
sono  state  dette  di  voi,  citta,  di 
Dio! 

Hon  lascerd  nell'  oblivione  ne  I1 
Egitto  ne  Babilonia,  dacche  que* 
popoli  mi  avranno  riconosciuto  per 
loro  Dio. 

Quanti  popoli  stranieri,  Tiri,  Eti- 
opi,  sino  a  quel  punto  miei  nemici, 
verranno  a  prestarmi  i  loro  omaggi. 

Ognuno  dira  allora:  Vedete  come 
questa  citta  si  e  popolata !  V  Altissi- 
mo  1'  ha  fondata  e  vuole  metterla 
in  fiore. 

Egli  percid  Q  V  unico  che  conosca 
il  numero  del  popolo  e  de1  grandi 
che  ne  sono  gli  abitanti. 

Non  vi  e  vera  felicita,  se  non  per 
coloro  che  vi  haune  V  abitazione. 


Reading  then  the  psalm  in  these  words,  you  have  it  as  the 
Western  Christians  sang  it  ever  since  St.  Jerome  wrote  it  into 
such  interpretation  for  them  ;  and  you  must  try  to  feel  it  as 
these  Western  Christians  of  Venice  felt  it,  having  now  their 
own  street  in  the  holy  city,  and  their  covenant  with  the  Prior 
of  Mount  Syon,  and  of  the  Temple  of  the  Lord :  they  them- 
selves having  struck  down  Tyre  with  their  own  swords,  taken 
to  themselves  her  power,  and  now  reading,  as  of  themselves, 
the  encompassing  benediction  of  the  prophecy  for  all  Gentile 
Nations,  <4Ecce  alienigense — et  Tyrus."    A  notable  piece  of 


L  ATE  AT  OR  ANUBIS. 


23 


Scripture  for  them,  to  be  dwelt  on,  in  every  word  of  it,  with 
all  humility  of  faith. 

What  then  is  the  meaning  of  the  two  verses  just  preceding 
these?  — 

"Glorious  things  are  spoken  of  thee,  thou  City  of  God.  I 
will  make  mention  of  Kahab  and  Babylon,  with  them  that 
know  me." 

If  you  like  to  see  a  curious  mistake  at  least  of  one  Protes- 
tant's 'private  judgment'  of  this  verse,  you  must  look  at  my 
reference  to  it  in  Fors  Clavigera  of  April,  1876,  p.  110,  with 
its  correction  by  Mr.  Gordon,  in  Fors  for  June,  1876,  pj).  178- 
203,  all  containing  variously  useful  notes  on  these  verses  ;  of 
which  the  gist  is,  however,  that  the  '  Eahab '  of  the  Latin  text 
is  the  Egyptian  'Dragon/  the  crocodile,  signifying  in  myth, 
which  has  now  been  three  thousand  years  continuous  in  human 
mind,  the  total  power  of  the  crocodile-god  of  Egypt,  couchant 
on  his  slime,  born  of  it,  mistakable  for  it, — his  gray  length  of 
unintelligible  scales,  fissured  and  wrinkled  like  dry  clay,  itself 
but,  as  it  were,  a  shelf  or  shoal  of  coagulated,  malignant  earth. 
He  and  his  company,  the  deities  born  of  the  earth — beast 
headed, — with  only  animal  cries  for  voices  :  — 

"  Omnigenumque  Deum  monstra,  et  latrator  Anubis 
Contra  Neptunum  et  Venerem,  coiitraque  Minervam." 

This  is  St.  Theodore's  Dragon-enemy — Egypt,  and  her  captiv- 
ity; bondage  of  the  earth,  literally  to  the  Israelite,  in  making 
bricks  of  it,  the  first  condition  of  form  for  the  God :  in  stern- 
er than  mere  literal  truth,  the  captivity  of  the  spirit  of  man, 
whether  to  earth  or  to  its  creatures. 

And  St.  Theodore's  victory  is  making  the  earth  his  pedestal, 
instead  of  his  adversary;  he  is  the  power  of  gentle  and  rational 
life,  reigning  over  the  wild  creatures  and  senseless  forces  of 
the  world.  The  Latrator  Anubis — most  senseless  and  cruel 
of  the  guardians  of  hell — becoming,  by  human  mercy,  the 
faifchfullest  of  creature-friends  to  man. 

Do  you  think  all  this  work  useless  in  your  Venetian  guide  ? 
There  is  not  a  picture, — not  a  legend, — scarcely  a  column  or 
an  ornament,  in  the  art  of  Venice  or  of  Italy,  which,  by  this 


24 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


piece  of  work,  well  clone,  will  not  become  more  precious  te 
you.  Have  you  ever,  for  instance,  noticed  how  the  baying  of 
Cerberus  is  stopped,  in  the  sixth  canto  of  Dante, — 

"  II  duca  mio 
Prese  la  terra;  et  con  piene  le  pugne 
La  gitto  dentro  alle  bramose  eaiiiie. " 

(To  the  three,  therefore  plural.)  It  is  one  of  the  innumerable 
subtleties  which  mark  Dante's  perfect  knowledge — inconceiv- 
able except  as  a  form  of  inspiration — of  the  inner  meaning  of 
every  myth,  whether  of  classic  or  Christian  theology,  known 
in  his  day. 

Of  the  relation  of  the  dog,  horse,  and  eagle  to  the  chivalry 
of  Europe,  you  will  find,  if  you  care  to  read,  more  noted,  in 
relation  to  part  of  the  legend  of  St.  Theodore,  in  the  Fors  of 
March,  this  year  ;  the  rest  of  his  legend,  with  what  is  notablest 
in  his  'Mariegola,'  I  will  tell  you  when  we  come  to  examine 
Carpaccio's  canonized  birds  and  beasts ;  of  which,  to  refresh 
you  after  this  piece  of  hard  ecclesiastical  reading  (for  I  can't 
tell  you  about  the  bases  of  the  pillars  to-day.  We  must  get 
into  another  humor  to  see  these),  you  may  see  within  five 
minutes'  walk,  three  together,  in  the  little  chapel  of  St.  George 
of  the  Schiavoni :  St.  George's  £  Porphyrio,'  the  bird  of  chas- 
tity, with  the  bent  spray  of  sacred  vervain  in  its  beak,  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  on  which  St.  George  is  baptizing  the  prin- 
cess ;  St.  Jerome's  lion,  being  introduced  to  the  monastery 
(with  resultant  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  brethren)  ;  and  Si 
Jerome's  dog,  watching  his  master  translating  the  Bible,  with 
highest  complacency  of  approval. 

And  of  St.  Theodore  himself  you  may  be  glad  to  know  that 
he  was  a  very  historical  and  substantial  saint  as  late  as  the 
fifteenth  century,  for  in  the  inventory  of  the  goods  and  chat- 
tels of  his  scuola,  made  by  order  of  its  master  (Gastoldo),  and 
the  companions,  in  the  year  1450,  the  first  article  is  the  body 
of  St.  Theodore,  with  the  bed  it  lies  on,  covered  by  a  coverlid 
of  "pano  di  grano  di  seta,  brocado  de  oro  fino."  So  late  as 
the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  (certified  by  the  inventario 
fatto  a  di  XXX.  de  Novembrio  MCCCCL.  per.  Sr  nanni  di 


ST.  JAMES  OF  TEE  DEEP  STREAM. 


25 


piero  de  la  colona,  Gastoldo,  e  suoi  campagni,  de  tutte  reli- 
quie  e  arnesi  e  beni,  se  trova  in  questa  hora  presente  in  la 
nostra  scuola),  here  lay  this  treasure,  dear  to  the  commercial 
heart  of  Venice. 

Oh,  good  reader,  who  hast  ceased  to  count  the  Dead  bones 
of  men  for  thy  treasure,  hast  thou  then  thy  Dead  laid  up  in 
the  hands  of  the  Living  God  ? 


CHAPTEE  in. 

ST.   JAMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAM. 

Twice  one  is  two,  and  twice  two  is  four  ;  but  twice  one  is 
not  three,  and  twice  two  is  not  six,  whatever  Shylock  may 
wish,  or  say,  in  the  matter.  In  wholesome  memory  of  which 
arithmetical,  and  (probably)  eternal,  fact,  and  in  loyal  defi- 
ance of  Shylock  and  his  knife,  I  write  down  for  you  these  fig- 
ures, large  and  plain  : 

1.  2.  4. 

Also  in  this  swiftly  progressive  ratio,  the  figures  may  ex- 
press what  modern  philosophy  considers  the  rate  of  progress 
of  Venice,  from  her  days  of  religion,  and  golden  ducats,  to  her 
days  of  infidelity,  and  paper  notes. 

Kead  them  backwards,  then,  sublime  modern  philosopher  ; 
and  they  will  give  you  the  date  of  the  birth  of  that  foolish 
Venice  of  old  time,  on  her  narrow  island. 

4.  2.  1. 

In  that  year,  and  on  the  very  day — (little  foolish  Venice 
used  to  say,  when  she  was  a  very  child), — in  which,  once 
upon  a  time,  the  world  was  made ;  and,  once  upon  another 
time — the  Ave  Maria  first  said, — the  first  stone  of  Venice  was 
laid  on  the  sea  sand,  in  the  name  of  St.  James  the  fisher. 

I  think  you  had  better  go  and  see  with  your  own  eyes, — 
tread  with  your  own  foot, — the  spot  of  her  nativity  :  so  much 


26 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


of  a  spring  day  as  the  task  will  take,  cannot  often  be  mora 
profitably  spent,  nor  more  affectionately  towards  God  and 
man,  if  indeed  you  love  either  of  them. 

So,  from  the  Grand  Hotel, — or  the  Swiss  Pension — or  the 
duplicate  Danieli  with  the  drawbridge, — or  wherever  else 
among  the  palaces  of  resuscitated  Venice  you  abide,  congrat- 
ulatory modern  ambassador  to  the  Venetian  Senate, — please, 
to-day,  walk  through  the  Merceria,  and  through  the  Square 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  where  is  the  little  octagon  turret-chapel 
in  the  centre,  for  sale  of  news  :  and  cross  the  Eialto — not  in 
the  middle  of  it,  but  on  the  right  hand  side,  crossing  from  St. 
Mark's.  You  will  probably  find  it  very  dirty, — it  may  be,  in- 
decently dirty, — that  is  modern  progress,  and  Mr.  Buckle's 
civilization  ;  rejoice  in  it  with  a  thankful  heart,  and  stay  in  it 
placidly,  after  crossing  the  height  of  the  bridge,  when  you 
come  down  just  on  a  level  with  the  capitals  of  the  first  story 
of  the  black  and  white,  all  but  ruined,  Palace  of  the  Camer- 
lenghi  ;  Treasurers  of  Venice,  built  for  them  when  she  began 
to  feel  anxious  about  her  accounts.  "  Black  and  white,"  I  call 
it,  because  the  dark  lichens  of  age  are  yefc  on  its  marble — or, 
at  least,  were,  in  the  winter  of  '76-77  ;  it  may  be,  even  before 
these  pages  get  printed,  it  will  be  scraped  and  regilt — or 
pulled  down,  to  make  a  railroad  station  at  the  Rial  to. 

Here  standing,  if  with  good  eyes,  or  a  good  opera  glass, 
you  look  back,  up  to  the  highest  story  of  the  blank  and  ugly 
building  on  the  side  of  the  canal  you  have  just  crossed  from, 
— you  will  see  between  two  of  its  higher  windows,  the  re- 
mains  of  a  fresco  of  a  female  figure.  It  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  last  vestige  of  the  noble  fresco  painting  of  Venice  on  her 
outside  walls  ; — Giorgione's, — no  less, — when  Titian  and  he 
were  house- painters, — the  Sea-Queen  so  ranking  them,  for 
her  pomp,  in  her  proud  days.  Of  this,  and  of  the  black  and 
white  palace,  we  will  talk  another  day.  I  only  asked  you  to 
look  at  the  fresco  just  now,  because  therein  is  seen  the  end  jf 
my  Venice, —  the  Venice  I  have  to  tell  you  of.  Yours,  of  the 
Grand  Hotels  and  the  Peninsular  steamers,  you  may  write  the 
history  of,  for  yourself. 

Therein, — as  it  fades  away — ends  the  Venice  of  St.  Mark's 


ST  JAMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAM, 


27 


Rest.  But  where  she  was  born,  you  may  now  go  quite  down 
the  steps  to  see.  Down,  and  through  among  the  fruit-stalls 
into  the  little  square  on  the  right  ;  then  turning  back,  the 
low  portico  is  in  front  of  you— not  of  the  ancient  church  in- 
deed, but  of  a  fifteenth  century  one — variously  translated,  in 
succeeding  times,  into  such  small  picturesqueness  of  stage 
effect  as  it  yet  possesses  ;  escaping,  by  God's  grace,  however, 
the  fire  which  destroyed  all  the  other  buildings  of  ancient 
Venice,  round  her  Rialto  square,  in  1513. 1 

Some  hundred  or  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  that, 
Venice  had  begun  to  suspect  the  bodies  of  saints  to  be  a  poor 
property  ;  carrion,  in  fact, — and  not  even  exchangeable  car- 
rion. Living  flesh  might  be  bought  instead. — perhaps  of 
prettier  aspect.  So,  as  I  said,  for  a  hundred  years  or  so,  she 
had  brought  home  no  relics, — but  set  her  mind  on  trade- 
profits,  and  other  practical  matters  ;  tending  to  the  achieve- 
ment of  wrealth,  and  its  comforts,  and  dignities.  The  curi- 
ous result  being,  that  at  that  particular  moment,  when  the 
fire  devoured  her  merchants'  square,  centre  of  the  then  mer- 
cantile world — she  happened  to  have  no  money  in  her  pocket 
to  build  it  again  with  ! 

Nor  were  any  of  her  old  methods  of  business  again  to  be 
resorted  to.  Her  soldiers  were  now  foreign  mercenaries,  and 
had  to  be  paid  before  they  would  fight  ;  and  prayers,  she  had 
found  out  long  before  our  English  wiseacre  apothecaries'  ap- 
prentices, were  of  no  use  to  get  either  money,  or  new  houses 
with,  at  a  pinch  like  this.  And  there  was  really  nothing  for 
it  but  doing  the  thing  cheap, — since  it  had  to  be  done.  Fra 
Giocondo  of  Verona  offered  her  a  fair  design  ;  but  the  city 
could  not  afford  it.  Had  to  take  Scarpagnino's  make-shift 
instead  ;  and  with  his  help,  and  Sansovino's,  between  1520 
and  1550,  she  just  managed  to  botch  up — what  you  see  sur- 
round the  square,  of  architectural  stateliness  for  her  mercan- 
tile home.    Discovery  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  main 

1  Many  chronicles  speak  of  it  as  burned  ;  but  the  authoritative  inscrip- 
tion of  1601  speaks  of  it  as  '  consumed  by  age,'  and  is  therefore  conclu< 
sive  on  this  point. 


28 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


cause  of  these  sorrowful  circumstances  of  hers, — observe  sa- 
gacious historians. 

At  all  events,  I  have  no  doubt  the  walls  were  painted  red, 
with  some  medallions,  or  other  cheap  decoration,  under  the 
cornices,  enough  to  make  the  little  square  look  comfortable. 
Whitewashed  and  squalid  now — it  may  be  left,  for  this  time, 
without  more  note  of  it,  as  we  turn  to  the  little  chttrcb.1! 

Your  Murray  tells  you  it  was  built  £C  in  its  present  form  " 
in  1194,  and  "  rebuilt  in  1531,  but  precisely  in  the  old  form," 
and  that  it  "  has  a  fine  brick  campanile."  The  fine  brick  cam- 
panile, visible,  if  you  look  behind  you,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  belongs  to  the  church  of  St.  John  Elemosinario.  And 
the  statement  that  the  church  was  "  rebuilt  in  precisely  the 
old  form "  must  also  be  received  with  allowances.  For  the 
"campanile"  here,  is  in  the  most  orthodox  English  Jacobite 
style  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  portico  is  Venetian  fif- 
teenth, the  walls  are  in  no  style  at  all,  and  the  little  Ma- 
donna inserted  in  the  middle  of  them  is  an  exquisitely  fin- 
ished piece  of  the  finest  work  of  1320  to  1350. 

And,  alas,  the  church  is  not  only  quite  other  in  form,  but 
even  other  in  place,  than  it  was  in  the  fifth  century,  having 
been  moved  like  a  bale  of  goods,  and  wTith  apparently  as  little 
difficulty  as  scruple,  in  1322,  on  a  report  of  the  Salt  Commis- 
sioners about  the  crowding  of  shops  round  it.  And,  in  sum, 
of  particulars  of  authentically  certified  vicissitudes,  the  little 
church  has  gone  through  these  following — how  many  more 
than  these,  one  cannot  say — but  these  at  least  (see  Appendix 
III.)  : 

I.  Founded  traditionally  in  421  (serious  doubts  whether  on 
Friday  or  Saturday,  involving  others  about  the  year  itself.) 
The  tradition  is  all  we  need  care  for. 

II.  Rebuilt,  and  adorned  with  Greek  mosaic  work  by  the 
Doge  Domenico  Selvo,  in  1073  ;  the  Doge  having  married  a 
Greek  wife,  and  liking  pretty  things.  Of  this  husband  and 
wife  you  shall  hear  more,  anon. 

1  Do  not,  if  you  will  trust  me,  at  this  time  let  your  guide  take  you  to 
look  at  the  Gobbo  di  Kialto,  or  otherwise  interfere  with  your  immediate 
business. 


ST.  JAMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAM. 


29 


1H.  Retouched,  and  made  bright  again,  getting  also  its  due 
share  of  the  spoil  of  Byzantium  sent  home  by  Henry  Dan- 
dolo,  1174. 

IV.  Dressed  up  again,  and  moved  out  of  the  buyers'  and 
sellers'  way,  in  1322. 

V.  ( Instaurated  '  into  a  more  splendid  church  (dicto  templo 
in  splendidiorem  ecciesiam  instaurato)  by  the  elected  pleba- 
nus,  Natalis  Regia,  desirous  of  having  the  church  devoted  to 
his  honor  instead  of  St.  James's,  1531. 

VI.  Lifted  up  (and  most  likely  therefore  first  much  pulled 
down),  to  keep  the  water  from  coming  into  it,  in  1601,  when 
the  double  arched  campanile  was  built,  and  the  thing  finally 
patched  together  in  the  present  form.  Doubtless,  soon,  by 
farther  '  progresso '  to  become  a  provision,  or,  perhaps,  a  pe- 
troleum-store, Venice  having  no  more  need  of  temples  ;  and 
being,  as  far  as  I  can  observe,  ashamed  of  having  so  many, 
overshadowing  her  buyers  and  sellers.  Better  rend  the  veils 
in  twain  forever,  if  convenient  storeshops  may  be  formed  in- 
side. 

These,  then,  being  authentic  epochs  of  change,  you  may 
decipher  at  ease  the  writing  of  each  of  them, — what  is  left  of 
it.  The  campanile  with  the  ugly  head  in  the  centre  of  it  is 
your  final  Art  result,  1601.  The  portico  in  front  of  you  is 
Natalis  Regia's  '  instauration  '  of  the  church  as  it  stood  after 
1322,  retaining  the  wooden  simplicities  of  bracket  above  the 
pillars  of  the  early  loggia  ;  the  Madonna,  as  I  said,  is  a  piece 
of  the  1320  to  1350  work  ;  and  of  earlier  is  no  vestige  here. 
Bat  if  you  will  walk  twenty  steps  round  the  church,  at  the 
back  of  it,  on  the  low  gable,  you  will  see  an  inscription  in 
firmly  graven  long  Roman  letters,  under  a  cross,  similarly  in- 
scribed. 

That  is  a  vestige  of  the  eleventh  century  church  ;  nay,  more 
than  vestige,  the  Voice  of  it — Sibylline, — left  when  its  body 
had  died. 

Which  I  will  ask  you  to  hear,  in  a  little  while.  But  first 
you  shall  see  also  a  few  of  the  true  stones  of  the  older  Temple. 
Enter  it  now  ;  and  reverently  ;  for  though  at  first,  amidst 
wretched  whitewash  and  stucco,  you  will  scarcely  see  the  true 


so 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


marble,  those  six  pillars  and  their  capitals  are  yet  actual  rem* 
nants  and  material  marble  of  the  venerable  church  ;  probably 
once  extending  into  more  arches  in  the  nave  ;  but  this  tran- 
sept ceiling  of  wagon  vault,  with  the  pillars  that  carry  it,  is 
true  remnant  of  a  mediaeval  church,  and,  in  all  likelihood, 
true  image  of  the  earliest  of  all — of  the  first  standard  of  Ven- 
ice, planted,  under  which  to  abide  ;  the  Cross,  engraven  on 
the  sands  thus  in  relief,  with  two  little  pieces  of  Roman  vault- 
ing, set  cross  wise  ; — your  modern  engineers  will  soon  make 
as  large,  in  portable  brickwork,  for  London  drains,  admirable, 
worshipful,  for  the  salvation  of  London  mankind  : — here  art- 
lessly rounded,  and  with  small  cupola  above  the  crossing. 

Thus  she  set  her  sign  upon  the  shore  ;  some  knot  of  gelat- 
inous seaweed  there  checking  the  current  of  the  'Deep 
Stream,'  which  sweeps  round,  as  you  see,  in  that  sigma  of 
canal,  as  the  Wharfe  round  the  shingly  bank  of  Bolton  Abbey, 
— a  notablest  Crook  of  Lune,  this  ;  and  Castrum,  here,  on 
sands  that  will  abide. 

It  is  strange  how  seldom  rivers  have  been  named  from  their 
depth.  Mostly  they  take  at  once  some  dear,  companionable 
name,  and  become  gods,  or  at  least  living  creatures,  to  their 
refreshed  people  ;  if  not  thus  Pagan-named,  they  are  noted 
by  their  color,  or  their  purity, — White  River,  Black  River, 
Rio  Verde,  Aqua  Dolce,  Fiume  di  Latte  ;  but  scarcely  ever, 
'  Deep  River.' 

And  this  Venetian  slow-pacing  water,  not  so  much  as  a 
river,  or  any  thing  like  one;  but  a  rivulet,  'fiumicello,'  only, 
rising  in  those  low  mounds  of  volcanic  hill  to  the  west. 
"  '  Rialto/  '  Rialtum,'  'Prealtum'  "  (another  idea  getting  con- 
fused with  the  first),  "dal  fiumicello  di  egual  nome  che, 
scendendo  dei  colli  Euganei  gettavasi  nel  Brenta,  con  esso 
scorrendo  lungo  quelle  isole  dette  appunto  Realtine."  1  The 
serpentine  depth,  consistent  always  among  consistent  shallow, 
being  here  vital ;  and  the  conception  of  it  partly  mingled  with 
that  of  the  power  of  the  open  sea— the  infinite  '  Altum  ; ' 
sought  by  the  sacred  wTater,  as  in  the  dream  of  Eneas,  "lacu 

1  Bomanin. 


ST.  JAMES  OF  THE  DEEP  STREAK. 


31 


fluvius  se  condidit  alto."  Hence  the  united  word  takes,  in 
declining  Latin,  the  shorter  form,  Rialto?, — properly,  in  the 
scholarship  of  the  State-documents,  'Rivoaltws.'  So  also, 
throughout  Venice,  the  Latin  Rivus  softens  into  Rio  ;  the 
Latin  Ripa  into  Riva,  in  the  time  when  you  had  the  running 
water — not  'canals/  bufc  running  brooks  of  sea, — *  lympha 
fugax,' — trembling  in  eddies,  between,  not  quays,  but  banks 
of  pasture  land  ;  soft  1  campi,'  of  which,  in  St.  Margaret's 
field,  I  have  but  this  autumn  seen  the  last  worn  vestige  trodden 
away ;  and  yesterday,  Feb.  26th,  in  the  morning,  a  little  tree 
that  was  pleasant  to  me  taken  up  from  before  the  door,  be- 
cause it  had  heaved  the  pavement  an  inch  or  two  out  of 
square  ;  also  beside  the  Academy,  a  little  overhanging  moment- 
ary shade  of  boughs  hewn  awTay,  '  to  make  the  street  "  bello," ' 
said  the  axe-bearer.  '  What,'  I  asked,  £  will  it  be  prettier  in 
summer  without  its  trees?'  cNon  x'e  bello  il  verde,' he  an- 
swered.1 True  oracle,  though  he  knew  not  what  he  said; 
voice  of  the  modern  Church  of  Venice  ranking  herself  under 
the  black  standard  of  the  pit. 

I  said  you  should  hear  the  oracle  of  her  ancient  Church  in 
a  little  while  ;  but  you  must  know  why,  and  to  whom  it  was 
spoken,  first,  — and  we  must  leave  the  Rial  to  for  to-day.  Look, 
as  you  recross  its  bridge,  westward,  along  the  broad-flowing 
stream  ;  and  come  here  also,  this  evening,  if  the  day  sets  calm, 
for  then  the  waves  of  it  from  the  Rialto  island  to  the  Ca  Fos- 
cari,  glow  like  an  Eastern  tapestry  in  soft-flowing  crimson, 
fretted  with  gold  ;  and  beside  them,  amidst  the  tumult  of 

I I  observe  the  good  people  of  Edinburgh,  have  the  same  taste  ;  and 
rejoice  proudly  at  having  got  an  asphalt  esplanade  at  the  end  of  Princes 
Street,  instead  of  cabbage-sellers.  Alas  !  my  Scottish  friends  ;  all  that 
Fri nce's  Street  of  yours  has  not  so  much  beauty  in  it  as  a  single  cabbage" 
stalk,  if  you  had  eyes  in  your  heads, — rather  the  extreme  reverse  of 
beauty  ;  and  there  is  not  one  of  the  lassies  who  now  stagger  up  and 
down  the  burning  marie  in  high-heeled  boots  and  French  bonnets,  who 
would  not  look  a  thousand-fold  prettier,  and  feel,  there's  no  counting 
how  much  nobler,  bare-headed  but  for  the  snood,  and  bare-foot  on  old- 
fashioned  grass  by  the  Nor'  loch  side,  bringing  home  from  market, 
basket  on  arm,  pease  for  papa's  dinner,  and  a  bunch  of  cherries  foi 
baby. 


32 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


squalid  ruin,  remember  the  words  that  are  the  *  burden  of 
Venice/  as  of  Tyre  : — 

"Be  still,  ye  inhabitants  of  the  Isle.  Thou  whom  the  mer< 
chants  of  Zidon,  that  pass  over  the  sea,  have  replenished.  B;y 
great  waters,  the  seed  of  Sihor,  the  harvest  of  the  river,  is  hei 
revenue  ;  and  she  is  a  mart  of  nations." 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

ST.   THEODORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER. 

The  history  of  Venice  divides  itself,  with  more  sharpness 
than  any  other  I  have  read,  into  periods  of  distinct  tendency 
and  character  ;  marked,  in  their  transition,  by  phenomena  no 
less  definite  than  those  of  the  putting  forth  the  leaves,  or 
setting  of  the  fruit,  in  a  plant ; — and  as  definitely  connected 
by  one  vitally  progressive  organization,  of  which  the  energy 
must  be  studied  in  its  constancy,  while  its  results  are  classed 
in  grouped  system. 

If  we  rightly  trace  the  order,  and  estimate  the  duration,  of 
such  periods,  wre  understand  the  life,  whether  of  an  organized 
being  or  a  state.  But  not  to  know  the  time  when  the  seed  is 
ripe,  or  the  soul  mature,  is  to  misunderstand  the  total  creat- 
ure. 

In  the  history  of  great  multitudes,  these  changes  of  their 
spirit,  and  regenerations  (for  they  are  nothing  less)  of  their 
physical  power,  take  place  through  so  subtle  gradations  of 
declining  and  dawning  thought,  that  the  effort  to  distinguish 
them  seems  arbitrary,  like  separating  the  belts  of  a  rainbow's 
color  by  firmly  drawn  lines.  But,  at  Venice,  the  lines  are 
drawn  for  us  by  her  own  hand ;  and  the  changes  in  her  tem- 
per are  indicated  by  parallel  modifications  of  her  policy  and 
constitution,  to  which  historians  have  always  attributed,  as  to 
efficient  causes,  the  national  fortunes  of  which  they  are  only 
the  signs  and  limitation. 

In  this  history,  the  reader  will  find  little  importance  at- 


ST.  THEODORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER 


33 


tacbed  to  these  external  phenomena  of  political  constitution  ; 
except  as  labels,  or,  it  may  be,  securing  seals,  of  the  state  of 
the  nation's  heart.  They  are  merely  shapes  of  amphora,  art- 
ful and  decorative  indeed  ;  tempting  to  criticism  or  copy  of 
their  form,  usefully  recordant  of  different  ages  of  the  wine, 
and  having  occasionally,  by  the  porousness  or  perfectness  of 
their  clay,  effect  also  on  its  quality.  But  it  is  the  grape-juice 
itself,  and  the  changes  in  it,  not  in  the  forms  of  flask,  that  we 
have  in  reality  to  study. 

Fortunately  also,  the  dates  of  the  great  changes  are  easily 
remembered  ;  they  fall  with  felicitous  precision  at  the  begin- 
ning of  centuries,  and  divide  the  story  of  the  city,  as  the 
pillars  of  her  Byzantine  courts,  the  walls  of  it,  with  symmetric 
stability. 

She  shall  also  tell  you,  as  I  promised,  her  own  story,  in  her 
own  handwriting,  all  through.  Not  a  word  shall  /  have  to 
say  in  the  matter ;  or  aught  to  do,  except  to  deepen  the  letters 
for  you  when  they  are  indistinct,  and  sometimes  to  hold  a 
blank  space  of  her  chart  of  life  to  the  fire  of  your  heart  for  a 
little  while,  until  wTords,  written  secretly  upon  it,  are  seen ; — 
if,  at  least,  there  is  fire  enough  in  your  owTn  heart  to  heat 
them. 

And  first,  therefore,  I  must  try  wrhat  power  of  reading  you 
have,  when  the  letters  are  quite  clear.  We  will  take  to-day, 
so  please  you,  the  same  walk  we  did  yesterday  ;  but  looking 
at  other  things,  and  reading  a  wider  lesson. 

As  early  as  you  can  (in  fact,  to  get  the  good  of  this  walk, 
you  must  be  up  with  the  sun),  any  bright  morning,  when  the 
streets  are  quiet,  come  with  me  to  the  front  of  St.  Mark's,  to 
begin  our  lesson  there. 

You  see  that  between  the  arches  of  its  vaults,  there  are  six 
oblong  panels  of  bas-relief. 

Two  of  these  are  the  earliest  pieces  of  real  Venetian  work  I 
know  of,  to  show  you  ;  but  before  beginning  with  them,  you 
must  see  a  piece  done  by  her  Greek  masters. 

Go  round  therefore  to  the  side  farthest  from  the  sea,  where, 
in  the  first  broad  arch,  you  will  see  a  panel  of  like  shape, 
set  horizontally  ;  the  sculpture  of  which  represents  twelve 


34 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


sheep,  six  on  one  side,  six  on  the  other,  of  a  throne :  on  which 
throne  is  set  a  cross ;  and  on  the  top  of  the  cross  a  circle ; 
and  in  the  circle,  a  little  caprioling  creature. 

And  outside  of  all,  are  two  palm  trees,  one  on  each  side ; 
and  under  each  palm  tree,  two  baskets  of  dates  ;  and  over  the 
twelve  sheep,  is  written  in  delicate  Greek  letters,  "  The  holy 
Apostles     and  over  the  little  caprioling  creature,  "  The  Lamb." 

Take  your  glass  and  study  the  carving  of  this  bas-relief  in- 
tently. It  is  full  of  sweet  care,  subtlety,  tenderness  of  touch, 
and  mind  ;  and  fine  cadence  and  change  of  line  in  the  little 
bowing  heads  and  bending  leaves.  Decorative  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  a  kind  of  stone-stitching,  or  sampler- work,  done  with 
the  innocence  of  a  girl's  heart,  and  in  a  like  unlearned  ful- 
ness. Here  is  a  Christian  man,  bringing  order  and  loveli- 
ness into  the  mere  furrows  of  stone.  Not  by  any  means  as 
learned  as  a  butcher,  in  the  joints  of  lambs  ;  nor  as  a  grocer, 
in  baskets  of  dates  ;  nor  as  a  gardener,  in  endogenous  plants  ; 
but  an  artist  to  the  heart's  core  ;  and  no  less  true  a  lover  of 
Christ  and  His  word.  Helpless,  with  his  childish  art,  to  carve 
Christ,  he  carves  a  cross,  and  caprioling  little  thing  in  a  ring 
at  the  top  of  it.  You  may  try — you — to  carve  Christ,  if  you 
can.  Helpless  to  conceive  the  Twelve  Apostles,  these  never- 
theless are  sacred  letters  for  the  bearers  of  the  Gospel  of 
Peace. 

Of  such  men  Venice  learned  to  touch  the  stone  ; — to  be- 
come a  Lapieida,  and  f  urrower  of  the  marble  as  well  as  the  sea. 

Now  let  us  go  back  to  that  panel  on  the  left  side  of  the 
central  arch  in  front.1 

This,  you  see,  is  no  more  a  symbolical  sculpture,  but  quite 

"J  Generally  note,  when  I  say  4  right '  or  '  left '  side  of  a  church  or 
chapel,  I  mean,  either  as  you  enter,  or  as  you  look  to  the  altar.  It  is 
not  safe  to  say  'north  and  south,'  for  Italian  churches  stand  all  round 
the  compass ;  and  besides,  the  phrase  would  be  false  of  lateral  chapels. 
Transepts  are  awkward,  because  often  they  have  an  altar  instead  of  an 
entrance  at  their  ends  ;  it  will  be  least  confusing  to  treat  them  always 
as  large  lateral  chapels,  and  place  them  in  the  series  of  such  chapels  as 
the  sides  of  the  nave,  calling  the  sides  right  and  left  as  you  look  either 
from  the  nave  into  the  chapels,  or  from  the  nave's  centre  to  the  rosa 
window,  or  other  termination  of  transept. 


ST.  THEODORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER. 


35 


distinctly  pictorial,  and  laboriously  ardent  to  express,  though 
in  very  low  relief,  a  curly-haired  personage,  handsome,  and 
something  like  George  the  Fourth,  dressed  in  richest  Roman 
armor,  and  sitting  in  an  absurd  manner,  more  or  less  tailor- 
fashion,  if  not  cross-legged  himself,  at  least  on  a  conspicu- 
ously cross-legged  piece  of  splendid  furniture  ;  which,  after 
deciphering  the  Chinese,  or  engineer's  isometrical,  perspective 
of  it,  you  may  perceive  to  be  only  a  gorgeous  pic-nic  or  draw- 
ing-stool, apparently  of  portable  character,  such  as  are  bought 
(more  for  luxury  than  labor, — for  the  real  working  apparatus 
is  your  tripod)  at  Messrs.  Newman's,  or  Winsor  and  Newton's. 

Apparently  portable,  I  say  ;  by  no  means  intended  as  such 
by  the  sculptor.  Intended  for  a  most  permanent  and  mag- 
nificent throne  of  state  ;  nothing  less  than  a  derived  form  of 
that  Greek  Thronos,  in  which  you  have  seen  set  the  cross  of 
the  Lamb.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  Tyrian  and  Judsean  Thronos — - 
Solomon's,  which  it  frightened  the  queen  of  Sheba  to  see  him 
sitting  on.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  Egyptian  throne  of  eternal  gran- 
ite, on  which  colossal  Memnon  sits,  melodious  to  morning 
light, — son  of  Aurora.  Yes  ;  and  of  the  throne  of  Isis-Ma- 
donna,  and,  mightier  yet  than  she,  as  we  return  towards  the 
nativity  of  queens  and  kings.  We  must  keep  at  present  to 
our  own  poor  little  modern,  practical  saint — sitting  on  his 
portable  throne  (as  at  the  side  of  the  opera  when  extra  people 
are  let  in  who  shouldn't  be)  ;  only  seven  hundred  years  old. 
To  this  crossed-legged  apparatus  the  Egyptian  throne  had 
dwindled  down  ;  it  looks  even  as  if  the  saint  who  sits  on  it 
might  begin  to  think  about  getting  up  some  day  or  other. 

All  the  more  when  you  know  who  he  is.  Gan  you  read  the 
letters  of  his  name,  written  beside  him  ? — 

SOS  GEORGIVS 

— Mr.  Emerson's  purveyor  of  bacon,  no  less  ! 1  And  he  does 
look  like  getting  up,  when  you  observe  him  farther.  Un- 
sheathing his  sword,  is  not  he  ? 

1  See  Fors  Clavigera  of  February,  1873,  containing  the  legends  of  St. 
George.  This,  with  the  other  numbers  of  Fors  referred  to  in  the  text 
of  4  St.  Mark's  Rest,'  may  be  bought  at  Venice,  together  with  it. 


36 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


No  ;  sheathing  it.  That  was  the  difficult  thing  he  had  first 
to  do,  as  you  will  find  on  reading  the  true  legend  of  him, 
which  this  sculptor  thoroughly  knew  ;  in  whose  conception  of 
the  saint  one  perceives  the  date  of  said  sculptor,  no  less  than 
in  the  stiff  work,  so  dimly  yet  perceptive  of  the  ordinary  laws 
of  the  aspect  of  things.  From  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  Parthe- 
non— through  sixteen  hundred  years  of  effort,  and  speech- 
making,  and  fighting — human  intelligence  in  the  Arts  has  ar- 
rived, here  in  Venice,  thus  far.  But  having  got  so  far,  we 
shall  come  to  something  fresh  soon  !  We  have  become  dis- 
tinctly representative  again,  you  see  ;  desiring  to  show,  not  a 
mere  symbol  of  a  living  man,  but  the  man  himself,  as  truly  as 
the  poor  stone-cutter  can  carve  him.  All  bonds  of  tyrannous 
tradition  broken  ; — the  legend  kept,  in  faith  yet ;  but  the 
symbol  become  natural ;  a  real  armed  knight,  the  best  he 
could  form  a  notion  of  ;  curly-haired  and  handsome  ;  and,  his 
also  the  boast  of  Dogberry,  every  thing  handsome  about  him. 
Thus  far  has  Venice  got  in  her  art  schools  of  the  early  thir- 
teenth century.  I  can  date  this  sculpture  to  that  time,  pretty 
closely  ;  earlier,  it  may  be, — not  later  ;  see  afterwards  the 
notes  closing  this  chapter. 

And  now,  if  you  so  please,  we  will  walk  under  the  clock- 
tower,  and  down  the  Merceria,  as  straight  as  we  can  go. 
There  is  a  little  crook  to  the  right,  bringing  us  opposite  St. 
Julian's  church  (which,  please,  don't  stop  to  look  at  just  now) ; 
then,  sharply,  to  the  left  again,  and  we  come  to  the  Ponte  de' 
Baratteri, — "  Rogue's  Bridge  " — on  which,  as  especially  a 
grateful  bridge  to  English  business-feelings,  let  us  reverently 
pause.  It  has  been  widened  lately,  you  observe, — the  use  of 
such  bridge  being  greatly  increased  in  these  times  ;  and  in  a 
convenient  angle,  out  of  passenger  current  (may  you  find  such 
wayside  withdrawal  in  true  life),  you  may  stop  to  look  back  at 
the  house  immediately  above  the  bridge. 

In  the  wall  of  which  you  will  see  a  horizontal  panel  of  bas- 
relief,  with  two  shields  on  each  side,  bearing  six  fleur-de-lys. 
And  this  you  need  not,  I  suppose,  look  for  letters  on,  to  tell 
you  its  subject.  Here  is  St.  George  indeed  ! — our  own  beloved 
old  sign  of  the  George  and  Dragon,  all  correct ;  and,  if  you 


ST.  THEODORE  THE  CHAIR- SELLER 


37 


know  your  Seven  champions,  Sabra  too,  on  the  rock,  thrilled 
witness  of  the  fight  And  see  what  a  dainty  St.  George,  too  ! 
Here  is  no  mere  tailor's  enthronement,  Eques,  ipso  melior 
Bellerophonti, — how  he  sits  ! — how  he  holds  his  lance  ! — how 
brightly  youthful  the  crisp  hair  under  his  light  cap  of  helm, — 
how  deftly  curled  the  fringe  of  his  horse's  crest, — how  vigorous 
in  disciplined  career  of  accustomed  conquest,  the  two  noble 
living  creatures  !  This  is  Venetian  fifteenth  century  work  of 
finest  style.  Outside-of -house  work,  of  course  :  we  compare 
at  present  outside  work  only,  panel  with  panel :  but  here  are 
three  hundred  years  of  art  progress  written  for  you,  in  two 
pages, — from  early  thirteenth  to  late  fifteenth  century  ;  and 
in  this  little  bas-relief  is  all  to  be  seen,  that  can  be,  of  ele- 
mentary principle,  in  the  very  crest  and  pride  of  Venetian 
sculpture, — of  which  note  these  following  points. 

First,  the  aspirations  of  the  front  of  St.  Mark's  have  been 
entirely  achieved,  and  though  the  figure  is  still  symbolical,  it 
is  now  a  symbol  consisting  in  the  most  literal  realization  pos- 
sible of  natural  facts.  That  is  the  way,  if  you  care  to  see  it, 
that  a  young  knight  rode,  in  1480,  or  thereabouts.  So,  his 
foot  was  set  in  stirrup, — so  his  body  borne, — so  trim  and  true 
and  orderly  every  thing  in  his  harness  and  his  life  :  and  this 
rendered,  observe,  with  the  most  consummate  precision  of 
artistic  touch.  Look  at  the  strap  of  the  stirrup, — at  the  little 
delicatest  line  of  the  spur, — can  you  think  they  are  stone  ? 
don't  they  look  like  leather  and  steel?  His  flying  mantle, — 
is  it  not  silk  more  than  marble  ?  That  is  all  in  the  beautiful 
doing  of  it :  precision  first  in  exquisite  sight  of  the  thing 
itself,  and  understanding  of  the  qualities  and  signs,  whether 
of  silk  or  steel  ;  and  then,  precision  of  touch,  and  cunning  in 
use  of  material,  which  it  had  taken  three  hundred  years  to 
learn.  Think  what  cunning  there  is  in  getting  such  edge  to 
the  marble  as  will  represent  the  spur  line,  or  strap  leather, 
with  such  solid  under-support  that,  from  1480  till  now,  it 
stands  rain  and  frost !  And  for  knowledge  of  form, — look 
at  the  way  the  little  princess's  foot  comes  out  under  the 
drapery  as  she  shrinks  back.  Look  at  it  first  from  the  left,  to 
see  how  it  is  foreshortened,  flat  on  the  rock  ;  then  from  the 


38 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


right,  to  see  the  curve  of  dress  up  the  limb  : — think  of  the  dif- 
ference between  this  and  the  feet  of  poor  St.  George  Sartor  of 
St.  Mark's,  pointed  down  all  their  length.  Finally,  see  how 
studious  the  whole  thing  is  of  beauty  in  every  part, — how  it 
expects  you  also  to  be  studious.  Trace  the  rich  tresses  of 
the  princess's  hair,  wrought  where  the  figure  melts  into 
shadow ; — the  sharp  edges  of  the  dragon's  mail,  slipping'  over 
each  other  as  he  wrings  neck  and  coils  tail ; — nay,  what  dec- 
orative ordering  and  symmetry  is  even  in  the  roughness  of  the 
ground  and  rock  !  And  lastly,  see  how  the  whole  piece  of 
work,  to  the  simplest  frame  of  it,  must  be  by  the  sculptor's 
own  hand  :  see  how  he  breaks  the  line  of  his  panel  moulding 
with  the  princess's  hair,  with  St.  George's  helmet,  with  the 
rough  ground  itself  at  the  base  ; — the  entire  tablet  varied  to 
its  utmost  edge,  delighted  in  and  ennobled  to  its  extreme 
limit  of  substance. 

Here,  then,  as  I  said,  is  the  top  of  Venetian  sculpture-art. 
Was  there  no  going  beyond  this,  think  you  ? 

Assuredly,  much  beyond  this  the  Venetian  could  have  gone, 
had  he  gone  straight  forward.  But  at  this  point  he  became 
perverse,  and  there  is  one  sign  of  evil  in  this  piece,  which  you 
must  carefully  discern. 

In  the  two  earlier  sculptures,  of  the  sheep,  and  the  throned 
Sfc.  George,  the  artist  never  meant  to  say  that  twelve  sheep 
ever  stood  in  two  such  rows,  and  were  the  twelve  apostles ; 
nor  that  St.  George  ever  sat  in  that  manner  in  a  splendid 
chair.  But  he  entirely  believed  in  the  facts  of  the  lives  of 
the  apostles  and  saints,  symbolized  by  such  figuring. 

But  the  fifteenth  century  sculptor  does,  partly,  mean  to  as- 
sert that  St.  George  did  in  that  manner  kill  a  dragon  :  does 
not  clearly  know  whether  he  did  or  not ;  does  not  care  very 
much  whether  he  did  or  not ; — thinks  it  will  be  very  nice  if, 
at  any  rate,  people  believed  that  he  did  ; — but  is  more  bent, 
in  the  heart  of  him,  on  making  a  pretty  bas-relief  than  on  any 
thing  else. 

Half  way  to  infidelity,  the  fine  gentleman  is,  with  all  his 
dainty  chiselling.  We  will  see,  on  those  terms,  what,  in 
another  centuiy,  this  fine  chiselling  comes  to. 


ST  THEODORE  TEE  CHAIR-SELLER. 


39 


So  now  walk  on,  down  the  Merceria  cli  San  Salvador.  Pres- 
ently, if  it  is  morning,  and  the  sky  clear,  you  will  see,  at  the 
end  of  the  narrow  little  street,  the  brick  apse  of  St.  Saviour's, 
warm  against  the  blue  ;  and,  if  you  stand  close  to  the  right,  a 
solemn  piece  of  old  Venetian  wall  and  window  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  calle,  which  you  might  pass  under  twenty 
times  without  seeing,  if  set  on  the  study  of  shops  only.  Then 
you  must  turn  to  the  right ;  perforce, — to  the  left  again  ;  and 
now  to  the  left,  once  more  ;  and  you  are  in  the  little  piazza  of 
St.  Salvador,  with  a  building  in  front  of  you,  now  occupied 
as  a  furniture  store,  which  you  will  please  look  at  with  atten- 
tion. 

It  reminds  you  of  many  things  at  home,  I  suppose  ? — has  a 
respectable,  old-fashioned,  city-of-London  look  about  it ; — 
something  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  of  Temple  Bar,  of  St.  Paul's, 
of  Charles  the  Second  and  the  Constitution,  and  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  Mr.  Bumble  ?  Truly  English,  in  many  respects, 
this  solidly  rich  front  of  Ionic  pillars,  writh  the  four  angels  on 
the  top,  rapturously  directing  your  attention,  by  the  grace- 
fullest  gesticulation,  to  the  higher  figure  in  the  centre  ! 

You  have  advanced  another  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and  are 
in  mid  seventeenth  century.  Here  is  the  '  Progresso '  of  Ven- 
ice, exhibited  to  you,  in  consequence  of  her  wealth,  and  gay 
life,  and  advance  in  anatomical  and  other  sciences. 

Of  which,  note  first,  the  display  of  her  knowledge  of  angelic 
anatomy.  Sabra,  on  the  rock,  just  showed  her  foot  beneath 
her  robe,  and  that  only  because  she  was  drawing  back,  fright- 
ened ;  but,  here,  every  angel  has  his  petticoats  cut  up  to  his 
thighs  ;  he  is  not  sufficiently  sacred  or  sublime  unless  you  see 
his  legs  so  high. 

Secondly,  you  see  how  expressive  are  their  attitudes, — 
"  What  a  wonderful  personage  is  this  we  have  got  in  the  mid- 
dle of  us  ! " 

That  is  Raphaelesque  art  of  the  finest.  Raphael,  by  this 
time,  had  taught  the  connoisseurs  of  Europe  that  whenever 
you  admire  anybody,  you  open  your  mouth  and  eyes  wide  ; 
when  you  wish  to  show  him  to  somebody  else  you  point  at 
him  vigorously  with  one  arm,  and  wave  the  somebody  else 


40 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


on  with  the  other  ;  when  you  have  nothing  to  do  of  that  sort, 
you  stand  on  one  leg  and  hold  up  the  other  in  a  graceful  line ; 
these  are  the  methods  of  true  dramatic  expression.  Your 
drapery,  meanwhile,  is  to  be  arranged  in  "sublime  masses," 
and  is  not  to  be  suggestive  of  any  particular  stuff! 

If  you  study  the  drapery  of  these  four  angels  thoroughly, 
3'ou  can  scarcely  fail  of  knowing,  henceforward,  what  a  bad 
drapery  is,  to  the  end  of  time.  Here  is  drapery  supremely, 
exquisitely  bad  ;  it  is  impossible,  by  any  contrivance,  to  get 
it  worse.  Merely  clumsy,  ill-cut  clothing,  you  may  see  any 
day  ;  but  there  is  skill  enough  in  this  to  make  it  exempiarily 
execrable.  That  flabby  flutter,  wrinkled  swelling,  and  puffed 
pomp  of  infinite  disorder  ; — the  only  action  of  it,  being  blown 
up,  and  away  ;  the  only  calm  of  it,  collapse  ; — the  resolution  of 
every  miserable  fold  not  to  fall,  if  it  can  help  it,  into  any  nat- 
ural line, — the  running  of  every  lump  of  it  into  the  next,  as 
dough  sticks  to  dough — remaining,  not  less,  evermore  inca- 
pable of  any  harmony  or  following  of  each  other's  lead  or  way  ; 
— and  the  total  rejection  of  all  notion  of  beauty  or  use  in  the 
stuff  itself.  It  is  stuff  without  thickness,  without  fineness, 
without  warmth,  without  coolness,  without  lustre,  without 
texture  ;  not  silk, — not  linen, — not  woollen  ; — something  that 
wrings,  and  wrinkles,  and  gets  between  legs, — that  is  all. 
"Worse  drapery  than  this,  you  cannot  see  in  mortal  investiture. 

Nor  worse  want  of  drapery,  neither — for  the  legs  are  as  un- 
graceful as  the  robes  that  discover  them  ;  and  the  breast  of 
the  ceutral  figure,  whom  all  the  angels  admire,  is  packed 
under  its  corslet  like  a  hamper  of  tomato  apples. 

To  this  type  the  Venetians  have  now  brought  their  symbol 
of  divine  life  in  man.  For  this  is  also — St.  Theodore  !  And 
the  respectable  building  below,  in  the  Bumble  style,  is  the 
last  effort  of  his  school  of  Venetian  gentlemen  to  house  them- 
selves respectably.  With  Ionic  capitals,  bare-legged  angels, 
and  the  Dragon,  now  square-headed  and  blunt-nosed,  they 
thus  contrive  their  last  club-house,  and  prepare,  for  resusci- 
tated Italy,  in  continued  \  Progresso,'a  stately  furniture  store. 
Here  you  may  buy  cruciform  stools,  indeed  !  and  patent  oil- 
cloths, and  other  supports  of  your  Venetian  worshipful  dig- 


ST.  THEODORE  THE  CHAIR-SELLER. 


41 


trity,  to  heart's  content.  Here  is  your  God's  Gift  to  the  nine- 
teenth century.  "  Deposito  mobili  nazionali  ed  esteri  ; 
quadri ;  libri  antichi  e  moderni,  ed  oggetti  diversi." 

Nevertheless,  through  all  this  decline  in  power  and  idea, 
there  is  yet,  let  us  note  finally,  some  wreck  of  Christian  in- 
tention, some  feeble  coloring  of  Christian  faith.  A  saint  is 
still  held  to  be  an  admirable  person  ;  he  is  practically  still  the 
patron  of  your  fashionable  club-house,  where  you  meet  to 
offer  him  periodical  prayer  and  alms.  This  architecture  is, 
seriously,  the  best  you  can  think  of ;  those  angels  are  hand- 
some, according  to  your  notions  of  personality  ;  their  attitudes 
really  are  such  as  you  suppose  to  be  indicative  of  celestial 
rapture, — their  features,  of  celestial  disposition. 

We  will  see  what  change  another  fifty  years  will  bring 
about  in  these  faded  feelings  of  Venetian  soul. 

The  little  calle  on  your  right,  as  you  front  St.  Theodore, 
will  bring  you  straight  to  the  quay  below  the  Kialto,  where 
your  gondola  shall  be  waiting,  to  take  you  as  far  as  the  bridge 
over  the  Cannareggio  under  the  Palazzo  Labia.  Stay  your 
gondola  before  passing  under  it,  and  look  carefully  at  the 
sculptured  ornaments  of  the  arch,  and  then  at  the  correspond- 
ent ones  on  the  other  side. 

In  these  you  see  the  last  manner  of  sculpture,  executed  by 
Venetian  artists,  according  to  the  mind  of  Venice,  for  her 
own  pride  and  pleasure.  Much  she  has  done  since,  of  art- 
work, to  sell  to  strangers,  executed  as  she  thinks  will  please 
the  sii'anger  best.  But  of  art  produced  for  her  own  joy  and 
in  her  own  honor,  this  is  a  chosen  example  of  the  last ! 

Not  representing  saintly  persons,  you  see  ;  nor  angels  in 
attitudes  of  admiration.  Quite  other  personages  than  angelic, 
and  with  expressions  of  any  thing  rather  than  affection  or  re- 
spect for  aught  of  good,  in  earth  or  heaven.  Such  were  the 
last  imaginations  of  her  polluted  heart,  before  death.  She 
had  it  no  more  in  her  power  to  conceive  any  other.  "Behold 
thy  last  gods," — the  Fates  compel  her  thus  to  gaze  and  per- 
ish. 

This  last  stage  of  her  intellectual  death  precedes  her  po- 
litical one  by  about  a  century  ;  during  the  last  half  of  which, 


42 


ST,  MARK'S  BEST. 


however,  she  did  little  more  than  lay  foundations  of  walls 
which  she  could  not  complete.  Virtually,  we  may  close  her 
national  history  with  the  seventeenth  century  ;  we  shall  not 
ourselves  follow  it  even  so  far. 

I  have  shown  you,  to-day,  pieces  of  her  art-work  by  which 
you  may  easily  remember  its  cardinal  divisions. 

You  saw  first  the  work  of  her  Greek  masters,  under  whom 
she  learned  both  her  faith  and  art. 

Secondly,  the  beginning  of  her  own  childish  efforts,  in  the 
St.  George  enthroned. 

Thirdly,  the  culmination  of  her  skill  in  the  St.  George  com- 
batant. 

Fourthly,  the  languor  of  her  faith  and  art  power,  under  the 
advance  of  her  luxury,  in  the  hypocrisy  of  St.  Theodore's 
Scuola,  now  a  furniture  warehouse. 

Lastly,  her  dotage  before  shameful  death. 

In  the  next  chapter,  I  will  mark,  by  their  natural  limits,  the 
epochs  of  her  political  history,  which  correspond  to  these  con- 
ditions of  her  knowledge,  hope,  and  imagination. 

But  as  you  return  home,  and  again  pass  before  the  porches 
of  St.  Mark's,  I  may  as  well  say  at  once  what  I  can  of  these 
six  bas-reliefs  between  them. 

On  the  sides  of  the  great  central  arch  are  St.  George  and 
St.  Demetrius,  so  inscribed  in  Latin.  Between  the  next  lat- 
eral porches,  the  Virgin  and  Archangel  Gabriel,  so  inscribed, 
—the  Archangel  in  Latin,  the  "  Mother  of  God  "  in  Greek. 

And  between  these  and  the  outer  porches,  uninscribed,  two 
of  the  labors  of  Hercules.  I  am  much  doubtful  concerning 
these,  myself, — do  not  know  their  manner  of  sculpture,  nor 
understand  their  meaning.  They  are  fine  work  ;  the  Venetian 
antiquaries  say,  very  early  (sixth  century) ;  types,  it  may  be, 
of  physical  human  power  prevailing  over  wild  nature;  the 
war  of  the  world  before  Christ. 

Then  the  Madonna  and  Angel  of  Annunciation  express  the 
Advent. 

Then  the  two  Christian  Warrior  Saints  express  the  heart  of 
Venice  in  her  armies. 

There  is  no  doubt,  therefore,  of  the  purposeful  choosing 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL. 


43 


and  placing  of  these  bas-reliefs.  Where  the  outer  ones  were 
brought  from,  I  know  not ;  the  four  inner  ones,  I  think,  are 
all  contemporary,  and  carved  for  their  place  by  the  Venetian 
scholars  of  the  Greek  schools,  in  late  twelfth  or  early  thir- 
teenth century. 

My  special  reason  for  assigning  this  origin  to  them  is  the 
manner  of  the  foliage  under  the  feet  of  the  Gabriel,  in  which 
is  the  origin  of  all  the  early  foliage  in  the  Gothic  of  Venice. 
This  bas-relief,  however,  appears  to  be  by  a  better  master 
than  the  others — perhaps  later  ;  and  is  of  extreme  beauty. 

Of  the  ruder  St.  George,  and  successive  sculptures  of  Evan- 
gelists on  the  north  side,  I  cannot  yet  speak  with  decision ; 
nor  would  you,  until  we  have  followed  the  story  of  Venice 
farther,  probably  care  to  hear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL. 

The  history  of  Venice,  then,  divides  itself  into  four  quite 
distinct  periods. 

I.  The  first,  in  which  the  fugitives  from  many  cities  on  the 
mainland,  gathered  themselves  into  one  nation,  dependent  for 
existence  on  its  labor  upon  the  sea  ;  and  which  develops 
itself,  by  that  labor,  into  a  race  distinct  in  temper  from  all 
the  other  families  of  Christendom.  This  process  of  growth 
and  mental  formation  is  necessarily  a  long  one,  the  result 
being  so  great.  It  takes  roughly,  seven  hundred  years — 
from  the  fifth  to  the  eleventh  century,  both  inclusive.  Accu- 
rately, from  the  Annunciation  day,  March  25th,  421,  to  the 
day  of  St.  Nicholas,  December  6th,  1100. 

At  the  close  of  this  epoch  Venice  had  fully  learned  Chris- 
tianity from  the  Greeks,  chivalry  from  the  Normans,  and  the 
laws  of  human  life  and  toil  from  the  ocean.  Prudently  and 
nobly  proud,  she  stood,  a  helpful  and  wise  princess,  highest  in 
counsel  and  mightiest  in  deed,  among  the  knightly  powers  of 
the  world. 


44 


ST.  MABK'S  BEST. 


II.  The  second  period  is  that  of  her  great  deeds  in  war, 
and  of  the  establishment  of  her  reign  in  justice  and  truth 
(the  best  at  least  that  she  knew  of  either),  over,  nominally, 
the  fourth  part  of  the  former  Roman  Empire.  It  includes  the 
whole  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  and  is  chiefly 
characterized  by  the  religious  passion  of  the  Crusades.  It 
lasts,  in  accurate  terms,  from  December  6th,  1100,  to  Febru- 
ary 28th,  1297  ;  but  as  the  event  of  that  day  was  not  con- 
firmed till  three  years  afterwards,  we  get  the  fortunately  pre- 
cise terminal  date  of  1301. 

III.  The  third  period  is  that  of  religious  meditation,  as 
distinct,  though  not  withdrawn  from,  religious  action.  It  is 
marked  by  the  establishment  of  schools  of  kindly  civil  order, 
and  by  its  endeavors  to  express,  in  wrord  and  picture,  the 
thoughts  which  until  then  had  wrought  in  silence.  The 
entire  body  of  her  noble  art-work  belongs  to  this  time.  It 
includes  the  fourteenth  and  fifteeenth  centuries,  and  twenty 
years  more  :  from  1301  1  to  1520. 

IV.  The  fourth  period  is  that  of  the  luxurious  use,  and  dis- 
play, of  the  powers  attained  by  the  labor  and  meditation  of 
former  times,  but  now  applied  without  either  labor  or  medita- 
tion : — religion,  art,  and  literature,  having  become  things  of 
custom  and  "  costume."  It  spends,  in  eighty  years,  the  fruits 
of  the  toil  of  a  thousand,  and  terminates,  strictly,  with  the 
death  of  Tintoret,  in  1594  :  we  will  say  1600. 

From  that  day  the  remainder  of  the  record  of  Venice  is 
only  the  diary  of  expiring  delirium,  and  by  those  who  love 
her,  wrill  be  traced  no  farther.  But  while  you  are  here  within 
her  walls  I  will  endeavor  to  interpret  clearly  to  you  the 
legends  on  them,  in  which  she  has  herself  related  the  passions 
of  her  Four  Ages. 

And  see  how  easily  they  are  to  be  numbered  and  remem- 
bered. Twelve  hundred  years  in  all  ;  divided — if,  broadly, 
we  call  the  third  period  two  centuries,  and  the  fourth,  one, — ■ 
in  diminishing  proportion,  7,  2,  2,  1 :  it  is  like  the  spiral 
of  a  shell,  reversed. 

I  have  in  this  first  sketch  of  them  distinguished  these  four 
1  Compare  *  Stones  of  Venice'  (old  edit.),  vol.  ii,,  p.  291. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL. 


45 


ages  by  the  changes  in  the  chief  element  of  every  nation's 
mind — its  religion,  with  the  consequent  results  upon  its  art. 
But  you  see  I  have  made  no  mention  whatever  of  all  that 
common  historians  think  it  their  primal  business  to  discourse 
of,- — policy,  government,  commercial  prosperity  !  One  of  my 
dates  however  is  determined  by  a  crisis  of  internal  policy  ; 
and  1  will  at  least  note,  as  the  material  instrumentation  of 
the  spiritual  song,  the  metamorphoses  of  state-order  which 
accompanied,  in  each  transition,  the  new  nativities  of  the 
state's  heart. 

I.  During  the  first  period,  which  completes  the  binding  of 
many  tribes  into  one,  and  the  softening  of  savage  faith  into 
intelligent  Christianity,  we  see  the  gradual  establishment  of  a 
more  and  more  distinctly  virtuous  monarchic  authority  ;  con- 
tinually disputed,  and  often  abused,  but  purified  by  every 
reign  into  stricter  duty,  and  obeyed  by  every  generation  with 
more  sacred  regard.  At  the  close  of  this  epoch,  the  helpful 
presence  of  God,  and  the  leading  powers  of  the  standard- 
bearer  Saint,  and  sceptre-bearing  King,  are  vitally  believed  ; 
reverently,  and  to  the  death,  obeyed.  And,  in  the  eleventh 
century,  the  Palace  of  the  Duke  and  lawgiver  of  the  people, 
and  his  Chapel,  enshrining  the  body  of  St.  Mark,  stand,  bright 
with  marble  and  gold,  side  by  side. 

II.  In  the  second  period,  that  of  active  Christian  warfare, 
there  separates  itself  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  chiefly  by 
pre-eminence  in  knightly  achievement,  and  persistence  in  pa- 
triotic virtue, — but  also,  by  the  intellectual  training  received 
in  the  conduct  of  great  foreign  enterprise,  and  maintenance 
of  legislation  among  strange  people,  —  an  order  of  aristocracy, 
raised  both  in  wisdom  and  valor  greatly  above  the  average 
level  of  the  multitude,  and  gradually  joining  to  the  traditions 
of  Patrician  Rome,  the  domestic  refinements,  and  imaginative 
sanctities,  of  the  northern  and  Frankish  chivalry,  whose  chiefs 
were  their  battle  comrades.  At  the  close  of  the  epoch,  this 
more  sternly  educated  class  determines  to  assume  authority 
in  the  government  of  the  State,  unswayed  by  the  humor,  and 
unhindered  by  the  ignorance,  of  the  lower  classes  of  the 
people  ;  and  the  year  which  I  have  assigned  for  the  accurate 


±8  ST  MAIZE'S  BEST. 

close  of  the  second  period  is  that  of  the  great  division  be* 
tween  nobles  and  plebeians,  called  by  the  Venetians  the 
••■  Closing  of  the  Council/' — the  restriction,  that  is  to  say,  of 
the  powers  of  the  Senate  to  the  lineal  aristocracy. 

Ill  The  third  period  shows  us  the  advance  of  this  now 
separate  body  of  Venetian  gentlemen  in  such  thought  and 
passion  as  the  privilege  of  their  position  admitted,  or  its 
temptations  provoked.  The  gradually  increasing  knowledge 
of  literature,  culminating  at  last  in  the  discovery  of  printing, 
and  revival  of  classic  formulae  of  method,  modified  by  reflec- 
tion, or  dimmed  by  disbelief,  the  frank  Christian  faith  of 
earlier  ages ;  and  social  position  independent  of  military 
prowess,  developed  at  once  the  ingenuity,  frivolity,  and  vanity 
of  the  scholar,  with  the  avarice  and  cunning  of  the  merchant. 

Protected  and  encouraged  by  a  senate  thus  composed,  dis- 
tinct companies  of  craftsmen,  wTholly  of  the  people,  gathered 
into  vowed  fraternities  of  social  order  ;  and,  retaining  the 
illiterate  sincerities  of  their  religion,  labored  in  unambitious 
peace,  under  the  orders  of  the  philosophic  aristocracy  ; — built 
for  them  their  great  palaces,  and  overlaid  their  walls,  within 
and  without,  with  gold  and  purple  of  Tyre,  precious  now  in 
Venetian  hands  as  the  colors  of  heaven  more  than  of  the  sea. 
By  the  hand  of  one  of  them,  the  picture  of  Venice,  with  her 
nobles  in  her  streets,  at  the  end  of  this  epoch,  is  preserved  to 
you  as  yet,  and  I  trust  will  be,  by  the  kind  fates,  preserved 
datelessly. 

IV.  In  the  fourth  period,  the  discovery  of  printing  having 
confused  literature  into  vociferation,  and  the  delicate  skill  of 
the  craftsman  having  provoked  splendor  into  lasciviousness, 
the  jubilant  and  coruscant  passions  of  the  nobles,  stately  yet 
in  the  forms  of  religion,  but  scornful  of  her  discipline,  ex- 
hausted, in  their  own  false  honor,  at  once  the  treasures  of 
Venice  and  her  skill  ;  reduced  at  last  her  people  to  misery, 
and  her  policy  to  shame,  and  smoothed  for  themselves  the 
downward  way  to  the  abdication  of  their  might  for  evermore. 

Now  these  two  histories  of  the  religion  and  policy  of  Ven- 
ice are  only  intense  abstracts  of  the  same  course  of  thought 
and  events  in  every  nation  of  Europe.    Throughout  the  whole 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL. 


47 


of  Christendom,  the  two  stories  in  like  manner  proceed  to* 
gether.  The  acceptance  of  Christianity — the  practice  of  it — 
the  abandonment  of  it — and  moral  ruin.  The  development  of 
kingly  authority,  — the  obedience  to  it — the  corruption  of  it — 
and  social  ruin.  But  there  is  no  evidence  that  the  first  of  these 
courses  of  national  fate  is  vitally  connected  with  the  second. 
That  infidel  kings  may  be  just,  and  Christian  ones  corrupt, 
was  the  first  lesson  Venice  learned  when  she  began  to  be  a 
scholar. 

And  observe  there  are  three  quite  distinct  conditions  of 
feeling  and  assumptions  of  theory  in  which  we  may  approach 
this  matter.  The  first,  that  of  our  numerous  cockney  friends, 
— that  the  dukes  of  Venice  were  mostly  hypocrites,  and  if  not, 
fools  ;  that  their  pious  zeal  was  merely  such  a  cloak  for  their 
commercial  appetite  as  modern  church-going  is  for  modern 
swindling  ;  or  else  a  pitiable  hallucination  and  puerility  : — 
that  really  the  attention  of  the  supreme  cockney  mind  would 
be  wasted  on  such  bygone  absurdities,  and  that  out  of  mere 
respect  for  the  common  sense  of  monkey-born-and-bred  hu- 
manity, the  less  we  say  of  them  the  better. 

The  second  condition  of  feeling  is,  in  its  full  confession,  a 
very  rare  one  ; — that  of  true  respect  for  the  Christian  faith, 
and  sympathy  with  the  passions  and  imaginations  it  excited, 
while  yet  in  security  of  modern  enlightenment,  the  observer 
regards  the  faith  itself  only  as  an  exquisite  dream  of  mortal 
childhood,  and  the  acts  of  its  votaries  as  a  beautifully  deceived 
heroism  of  vain  hope. 

This  theory  of  the  splendid  mendacity  of  Heaven,  and  ma- 
jestic somnambulism  of  man,  I  have  only  known  to  be  held  in 
the  sincere  depth  of  its  discomfort,  by  one  of  my  wisest  and 
dearest  friends,  under  the  pressure  of  uncomprehended  sor- 
row in  his  own  personal  experience.  But  to  some  extent  it 
confuses  or  undermines  the  thoughts  of  nearly  all  men  who 
have  been  interested  in  the  material  investigations  of  recent 
physical  science,  while  retaining  yet  imagination  and  under- 
standing enough  to  enter  into  the  heart  of  the  religious  and 
creative  ages. 

And  it  necessarily  takes  possession  of  the  spirit  of  such  men 


48 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


chiefly  at  the  times  of  personal  sorrow,  which  teach  even  to 
the  wisest,  the  hollowness  of  their  best  trust,  and  the  vanity 
of  their  dearest  visions ;  and  when  the  epitaph  of  all  human 
virtue,  and  sum  of  human  peace,  seem  to  be  written  in  the 
lowly  argument, — 

"  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of  ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. " 

The  third,  the  only  modest,  and  therefore  the  only  rational, 
theory,  is,  that  we  are  all  and  always,  in  these  as  in  former 
ages,  deceived  by  our  own  guilty  passions,  blinded  by  our 
own  obstinate  wills,  and  misled  by  the  insolence  and  fantasy 
of  our  ungoverned  thoughts  ;  but  that  there  is  verily  a  Divin- 
ity in  nature  which  has  shaped  the  rough  hewn  deeds  of  our 
weak  human  effort,  and  revealed  itself  in  rays  of  broken,  but 
of  eternal  light,  to  the  souls  which  have  desired  to  see  the  day 
of  the  Son  of  Man. 

By  the  more  than  miraculous  fatality  which  has  been  hither- 
to permitted  to  rule  the  course  of  the  kingdoms  of  this  world, 
the  men  who  are  capable  of  accepting  such  faith,  are  rarely 
able  to  read  the  history  of  nations  by  its  interpretation. 
They  nearly  all  belong  to  some  one  of  the  passionately  egot- 
istic sects  of  Christianity  ;  and  are  miserably  perverted  into  the 
missionary  service  of  their  own  schism  ;  eager  only,  in  the 
records  of  the  past,  to  gather  evidence  to  the  advantage  of 
their  native  persuasion,  and  to  the  disgrace  of  all  opponent 
forms  of  similar  heresy ;  or,  that  is  to  say,  in  every  case,  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  religion  of  this  world. 

With  no  less  thankfulness  for  the  lesson,  than  shame  for 
what  it  showed,  I  have  myself  been  forced  to  recognize  the 
degree  in  which  all  my  early  work  on  Venetian  history  was 
paralyzed  by  this  petulance  of  sectarian  egotism  ;  and  it  is 
among  the  chief  advantages  I  possess  for  the  task  now  under- 
taken in  my  closing  years,  that  there  are  few  of  the  errors 
against  which.  I  have  to  warn  my  readers,  into  which  I  have 
not  myself  at  some  time  fallen.  Of  which  errors,  the  chief, 
and  cause  of  all  the  rest,  is  the  leaning  on  our  own  under- 


RED  AND  WHITE  CLOUDS. 


49 


standing  ;  the  thought  that  we  can  measure  the  hearts  of  our 
brethren,  and  judge  of  the  ways  of  God.  Of  the  hearts  of 
men,  noble,  yet  "  deceitful  above  all  things,  who  can  know 
them  ?  " — that  infinitely  perverted  scripture  is  yet  infinitely 
true.  And  for  the  ways  of  God !  Oh,  my  good  and  gentle 
reader,  how  much  otherwise  would  not  you  and  I  have  made 
this  world  ? 


CHAPTEK  VI 

RED  AND  WHITE  CLOUDS. 

Not,  therefore,  to  lean  on  our  own  sense,  but  in  all  the 
strength  it  has,  to  use  it ;  not  to  be  captives  to  our  private 
thoughts,  but  to  dwell  in  them,  without  wandering,  until,  out 
of  the  chambers  of  our  own  hearts  we  begin  to  conceive  what 
labyrinth  is  in  those  of  others, — thus  we  have  to  prepare  our- 
selves, good  reader,  for  the  reading  of  any  history. 

If  but  we  may  at  last  succeed  in  reading  a  little  of  our  own, 
and  discerning  what  scene  of  the  world's  drama  we  are  set  to 
play  in, — drama  whose  tenor,  tragic  or  other,  seemed  of  old 
to  rest  with  so  few  actors ;  but  now,  with  this  pantomimic 
mob  upon  the  stage,  can  you  make  out  any  of  the  story  ? — 
prove,  even  in  your  own  heart,  how  much  you  believe  that 
there  is  any  Playwright  behind  the  scenes  ? 

Such  a  wild  dream  as  it  is ! — nay,  as  it  always  has  been, 
except  in  momentary  fits  of  consciousness,  and  instants  of 
startled  spirit, — perceptive  of  heaven.  For  many  centuries 
the  Knights  of  Christendom  wore  their  religion  gay  as  their 
crest,  familiar  as  their  gauntlet,  shook  it  high  in  the  summer 
air,  hurled  it  fiercely  in  other  people's  faces,  grasped  their 
spear  the  firmer  for  it,  sat  their  horses  the  prouder ;  but  it 
never  entered  into  their  minds  for  an  instant  to  ask  the  mean- 
ing of  it !  6  Forgive  us  our  sins  : '  by  all  means — yes,  and  the 
next  garrison  that  holds  out  a  day  longer  than  is  convenient 
to  us,  hang  them  every  man  to  his  battlement.  *  Give  us  this 
day  our  daily  bread,' — yes,  and  our  neighbor's  also,  if  we 
have  any  luck.    6  Our  Lady  and  the  saints  ! '   Is  there  any 


50 


/ST.  MAEK'S  REST. 


infidel  dog  that  doubts  of  them  ? — in  God's  name,  boot  an<3 
spur — and  let  us  have  the  head  off  him.  It  went  on  so, 
frankly  and  bravely,  to  the  twelfth  century,  at  the  earliest  ; 
when  men  begin  to  think  in  a  serious  manner  ;  more  or  less 
of  gentle  manners  and  domestic  comfort  being  also  then  con- 
ceivable and  attainable.  Rosamond  is  not  any  more  asked  to 
drink  out  of  her  father's  skull.  Rooms  begin  to  be  matted 
and  wainscoted ;  shops  to  hold  store  of  marvel]  ous  foreign 
wares  ;  knights  and  ladies  learn  to  spell,  and  to  read,  with 
pleasure  ;  music  is  everywhere  ; — Death,  also.  Much  to  en- 
joy— much  to  learn,  and  to  endure — with  Death  always  at  the 
gates.  "  If  war  fail  thee  in  thine  own  country,  get  thee  with 
haste  into  another,"  says  the  faithful  old  French  knight  to  the 
boy-chevalier,  in  early  fourteenth  century  days. 

No  country  stays  more  than  two  centuries  in  this  inter- 
mediate phase  between  Faith  and  Reason.  In  France  it  lasted 
from  about  1150  to  1350  ;  in  England,  1200  to  1400  ;  in 
Venice,  1300  to  1500.  The  course  of  it  is  always  in  the 
gradual  develojmient  of  Christianity, — till  her  yoke  gets  at 
once  too  aerial,  and  too  straight,  for  the  mob,  who  break 
through  it  at  last  as  if  it  were  so  much  gossamer  ;  and  at  the 
same  fatal  time,  wealth  and  luxury,  with  the  vanity  of  corrupt 
learning,  foul  the  faith  of  the  upper  classes,  who  now  begin  to 
wear  their  Christianity,  not  tossed  for  a  crest  high  over  their 
armor,  but  stuck  as  a  plaster  over  their  sores,  inside  of  their 
clothes.  Then  comes  printing,  and  universal  gabble  of  fools ; 
gunpowder,  and  the  end  of  all  the  noble  methods  of  war  ; 
trade,  and  universal  swindling  ;  wealth,  and  universal  gam- 
bling ;  idleness,  and  universal  harlotry  ;  and  so  at  last — 
Modern  Science  and  Political  Economy  ;  and  the  reign  of  St. 
Petroleum  instead  of  St.  Peter.  Out  of  which  God  only  knows 
what  is  to  come  next ;  but  He  does  know,  whatever  the  Jew 
swindlers  and  apothecaries'  'prentices  think  about  it. 

Meantime,  with  what  remainder  of  belief  in  Christ  may  be 
left  in  us  ;  and  helping  that  remnant  with  all  the  power  we 
have  of  imagining  what  Christianity  was,  to  people  who,  with- 
out understanding  its  claims  or  its  meaning,  did  not  doubt 
for  an  instant  its  statements  of  fact,  and  used  the  whole  of 


RED  AND  WHITE  CLOUDS. 


51 


their  childish  imagination  to  realize  the  acts  of  their  Saviour's 
life,  and  the  presence  of  His  angels,  let  us  draw  near  to  the 
first  sandy  thresholds  of  the  Venetian's  home. 

Before  you  read  any  of  the  so-called  historical  events  of  the 
first  period,  I  want  you  to  have  some  notion  of  their  scene. 
You  will  hear  of  Tribunes — Consuls — Doges  ;  but  what  sort 
of  tribes  were  they  tribunes  of  ?  what  sort  of  nation  were 
they  dukes  of  ?  You  will  hear  of  brave  naval  battle — victory- 
over  sons  of  Emperors  :  what  manner  of  people  were  they, 
then,  whose  swords  lighten  thus  brightly  in  the  dawn  of  chiv- 
alry ? 

For  the  whole  of  her  first  seven  hundred  years  of  work  and 
war,  Venice  was  in  great  part  a  wooden  town  ;  the  houses  of 
the  noble  mainland  families  being  for  long  years  chiefly  at 
Heraclea,  and  on  other  islands  ;  nor  they  magnificent,  but 
farm-villas  mostly,  of  which,  and  their  farming,  more  pres- 
ently. Far  too  much  stress  has  been  generally  laid  on  the 
fishing  and  salt-works  of  early  Venice,  as  if  they  were  her 
only  businesses  ;  nevertheless  at  least  you  may  be  sure  of  this 
much,  that  for  seven  hundred  years  Venice  had  more  likeness 
in  her  to  old  Yarmouth  than  to  new  Pall  Mall ;  and  that  you 
might  come  to  shrewder  guess  of  what  she  and  her  people 
were  like,  by  living  for  a  year  or  two  lovingly  among  the  her- 
ring-catchers of  Yarmouth  Roads,  or  the  boatmen  of  Deal  or 
Boscastle,  than  by  reading  any  lengths  of  eloquent  history. 
But  you  are  to  know  also,  and  remember  always,  that  this 
amphibious  city — this  Phocaea,  or  sea-dog  of  towns — looking 
with  soft  human  eyes  at  you  from  the  sand,  Proteus  himself 
latent  in  the  salt-smelling  skin  of  her — had  fields,  and  plots 
of  garden  here  and  there  ;  and,  far  and  near,  sweet  woods  of 
Calypso,  graceful  with  quivering  sprays,  for  woof  of  nests — 
gaunt  with  forked  limbs  for  ribs  of  ships  ;  had  good  milk  and 
butter  from  familiarly  couchant  cows ;  thickets  wherein  fa- 
miliar birds  could  sing  ;  and  finally  was  observant  of  clouds 
and  sky,  as  pleasant  and  useful  phenomena.  And  she  had  at 
due  distances  among  her  simple  dwellings,  stately  churches 
of  marble. 

These  things  you  may  know,  if  you  will,  from  the  following 


52 


ST  MARK'S  BEST. 


u  quite  ridiculous  "  tradition,  which,  ridiculous  as  it  may  be^ 
I  will  beg  you  for  once  to  read,  since  the  Doge  Andrea  Dan- 
dolo  wrote  it  for  you,  with  the  attention  due  to  the  address  oi 
a  Venetian  gentleman,  and  a  King.1 

"  As  head  and  bishop  of  the  islands,  the  Bishop  Magnus  of 
Altinum  went  from  place  to  place  to  give  them  comfort,  saying 
that  they  ought  to  thank  God  for  having  escaped  from  these 
barbarian  cruelties.  And  there  appeared  to  him  St.  Peter,  or- 
dering him  that  in  the  head  of  Venice,  or  truly  of  the  city  of 
Kivoalto,  where  he  should  find  oxen  and  sheep  feeding,  he 
was  to  build  a  church  under  his  (St.  Peter's)  name.  And  thus 
he  did  ;  building  St.  Peter's  Church  in  the  island  of  Olivolo, 
where  at  present  is  the  seat  and  cathedral  church  of  Venice. 

"  Afterwards  appeared  to  him  the  angel  Raphael,  commit- 
ting it  to  him,  that  at  another  place,  where  he  should  find  a 
number  of  birds  together,  he  should  build  him  a  church :  and 
so  he  did,  which  is  the  church  of  the  Angel  Raphael  in  Dor- 
soduro. 

"  Afterwards  appeared  to  him  Messer  Jesus  Christ  our 
Lord,  and  committed  to  him  that  in  the  midst  of  the  city  he 
should  build  a  church,  in  the  place,  above  which  he  should 
see  a  red  cloud  rest :  and  so  he  did  ;  and  it  is  San  Salvador. 

"  Afterwards  appeared  to  him  the  most  holy  Mary  the  Vir- 
gin, very  beautiful ;  and  commanded  him  that  where  he  should 
see  a  white  cloud  rest,  he  should  build  a  church :  which  is  the 
church  of  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful. 

"  Yet  still  appeared  to  him  St.  John  the  Baptist,  command- 
ing that  he  should  build  two  churches,  one  near  the  other — 
the  one  to  be  in  his  name,  and  the  other  in  the  name  of  his 
father.  Which  he  did,  and  they  are  San  Giovanni  in  Bragola, 
and  San  Zaccaria. 

"  Then  appeared  to  him  the  apostles  of  Christ,  wishing,  they 

1  A  more  graceful  form  of  this  legend  has  "been  translated  with  feel- 
ing and  care  by  the  Countess  Isobel  Cholmley,  in  Bermani,  from  an 
MS.  in  her  possession,  copied,  I  believe,  from  one  of  the  tenth  century. 
But  I  take  the  form  in  which  it  was  written  by  Andrea  Dandolo,  that 
the  reader  may  have  more  direct  associations  with  the  beautiful  image 
of  the  Doge  on  his  tomb  in  the  Baptistery. 


BED  AND  WHITE  CLOUDS. 


53 


also,  to  have  a  church  in  this  new  city ;  and  they  committed 
it  to  him  that  where  he  should  see  twelve  cranes  in  a  com- 
pany, there  he  should  build  it.  Lastly  appeared  to  him  the 
blessed  Virgin  Giustina,  and  ordered  him  that  where  he  should 
find  vines  bearing  fresh  fruits  there  he  should  build  her  a 
church." 

Now  this  legend  is  quite  one  of  the  most  precious  things  in 
the  story  of  Venice  :  preserved  for  us  in  this  form  at  the  end 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  by  one  of  her  most  highly  edu- 
cated gentlemen,  it  shows  the  very  heart  of  her  religious  and 
domestic  power,  and  assures  for  us,  with  other  evidence, 
these  following  facts. 

First ;  that  a  certain  measure  of  pastoral  home-life  was 
mingled  with  Venice's  training  of  her  sailors ; — evidence 
whereof  remains  to  this  day,  in  the  unfailing  '  Campo ' 
round  every  church  ;  the  church  '  meadow ' — not  church- 
£yard.'  It  happened  to  me,  once  in  my  life,  to  go  to  church 
in  a  state  of  very  great  happiness  and  peace  of  mind ;  and 
this  in  a  very  small  and  secluded  country  church.  And  Fors 
would  have  it  that  I  should  get  a  seat  in  the  chancel ;  and 
the  day  was  sunny,  and  the  little  side  chancel-door  was  open 
opposite  into,  what  I  hope  was  a  field.  I  saw  no  graves  in 
it ;  but  in  the  sunshine,  sheep  feeding.  And  I  never  was  at  so 
divine  a  church  service  before,  nor  have  been  since.  If  you  will 
read  the  opening  of  Wordsworth's  'White  Doe  of  Rylstone,' 
and  can  enjoy  it,  you  may  learn  from  it  what  the  look  of  an 
old  Venetian  church  would  be,  with  its  surrounding  field. 
St.  Mark's  Place  was  only  the  meadow  of  St.  Theodore's 
church,  in  those  days. 

Next — you  observe  the  care  and  watching  of  animals. 
That  is  still  a  love  in  the  heart  of  Venice.  One  of  the  chief 
little  worries  to  me  in  my  work  here,  is  that  I  walk  faster 
than  the  pigeons  are  used  to  have  people  walk ;  and  am  con- 
tinually like  to  tread  on  them  ;  and  see  story  in  Fors,  March 
of  this  year,  of  the  gondolier  and  his  dog.  Nay,  though,  the 
other  day,  I  was  greatly  tormented  at  the  public  gardens,  in 
the  early  morning,  when  I  had  counted  on  a  quiet  walk,  by 


54 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


a  cluster  of  boys  who  were  chasing  the  first  twittering  birds 
of  the  spring  from  bush  to  bush,  and  throwing  sand  at  them, 
with  wild  shouts  and  whistles,  they  were  not  doing  it,  as  I  at 
first  thought,  in  mere  mischief,  but  with  hope  of  getting  a 
penny  or  two  to  gamble  with,  if  they  could  clog  the  poor 
little  creatures'  wings  enough  to  bring  one  down — "  6  Canta 
bene,  signor,  quell'  uccellino."  Such  the  nineteenth  century's 
reward  of  Song.  Meantime,  among  the  silvery  gleams  of 
islet  tower  on  the  lagoon  horizon,  beyond  Mazorbo — a  white 
ray  flashed  from  the  place  where  St.  Francis  preached  to  the 
Birds. 

Then  thirdly — note  that  curious  observance  of  the  color  of 
clouds.  That  is  gone,  indeed  ;  and  no  Venetian,  or  Italian,  or 
Frenchman,  or  Englishman,  is  likely  to  know  or  care,  more, 
whether  any  God-given  cloud  is  white  or  red  ;  the  primal  ef- 
fort of  his  entire  human  existence  being  now  to  vomit  out 
the  biggest  black  one  he  can  pollute  the  heavens  with.  But,  in 
their  rough  way,  there  was  yet  a  perception  in  the  old  fisher- 
men's eyes  of  the  difference  between  white  'nebbia'  on  the 
morning  sea,  and  red  clouds  in  the  evening  twilight.  And 
the  Stella  Maris  comes  in  the  sea  Cloud  Leucothea  :  but  the 
Son  of  Man  on  the  jasper  throne. 

Thus  much  of  the  aspect,  and  the  thoughts  of  earliest  Ven- 
ice, we  may  gather  from  one  tradition,  carefully  read.  "What 
historical  evidence  exists  to  confirm  the  gathering,  you  shall 
see  in  a  little  while  ;  meantime — such  being  the  scene  of  the 
opening  drama — we  must  next  consider  somewhat  of  the 
character  of  the  actors.  For  though  what  manner  of  houses 
they  had,  has  been  too  little  known,  what  manner  of  men  they 
were,  has  not  at  all  been  known,  or  even  the  reverse  of  knowi^ 
—  belied. 


DIVINE  RIGHT. 


55 


CHAPTER  VDL 

DIVINE  RIGHT. 

Are  you  impatient  with  me  ?  and  do  you  wish  me,  ceasing 
preamble,  to  begin — £In  the  year  this,  happened  that/ and 
set  you  down  a  page  of  dates  and  Doges  to  be  learned  oft 
by  rote?  You  must  be  denied  such  delight  a  little  while 
longer.  If  I  begin  dividing  this  first  period,  at  present  (and 
it  has  very  distinctly  articulated  joints  of  its  own),  we  should 
get  confused  between  the  subdivided  and  the  great  epochs.  I 
must  keep  your  thoughts  to  the  Three  Times,  till  we  know 
them  clearly  ;  and  in  this  chapter  I  am  only  going  to  tell  you 
the  story  of  a  single  Doge  of  the  First  Time,  and  gather  what 
we  can  out  of  it. 

Only,  since  we  have  been  hitherto  dwelling  on  the  soft  and 
religiously  sentimental  parts  of  early  Venetian  character,  it  is 
needful  that  I  should  ask  you  to  notice  one  condition  in  their 
government  of  a  quite  contrary  nature,  which  historians  usu- 
ally pass  by  as  if  it  were  of  no  consequence ;  namely,  that 
during  this  first  period,  five  Doges,  after  being  deposed,  had 
their  eyes  put  out. 

Pulled  out,  say  some  writers,  and  I  think  with  evidence 
reaching  down  as  far  as  the  endurance  on  our  English  stage 
of  the  blinding  of  Gloster  in  King  Lear. 

But  at  all  events  the  Dukes  of  Venice,  whom  her  people 
thought  to  have  failed  in  their  duty,  were  in  that  manner  in- 
capacitated from  reigning  more. 

An  Eastern  custom,  as  we  know :  grave  in  judgment ;  in 
the  perfectness  of  it,  joined  with  infliction  of  grievous  Sight, 
before  the  infliction  of  grievous  Blindness ;  that  so  the  last 
memory  of  this  world's  light  might  remain  a  grief.  "  And 
they  slew  the  sons  of  Zedekiah  before  his  eyes  ;  and  put  out 
the  eyes  of  Zedekiah." 

Custom  I  know  not  how  ancient.  The  sons  of  Eliab,  when 
JudaJj  was  young  in  her  Exodus,  like  Venice,  appealed  to  it  in 


56 


ST.  MARK'S  REST, 


their  f  ury  :  "  Is  it  a  small  thing  that  thou  hast  brought  us  up 
out  of  a  land  that  floweth  with  milk  and  honey,  except  thou 
make  thyself  altogether  a  Prince  over  us  ;  wilt  thou  put  out 
the  eyes  of  these  men  ?  " 

The  more  wild  Western  races  of  Christianity,  early  Irish 
and  the  like, — Norman  even,  in  the  pirate  times, — inflict  the 
penalty  writh  reckless  scorn  ;J  but  Venice  deliberately,  "as  was 
her  constant  way  ;  such  her  practical  law  against  leaders 
whom  she  had  found  spiritually  blind:  "These,  at  least,  shall 
guide  no  more." 

Very  savage  !  monstrous  !  if  you  will ;  whether  it  be  not  a 
worse  savageness  deliberately  to  follow  leaders  without  sight, 
may  be  debatable. 

The  Doge  whose  history  I  am  going  to  tell  you  was  the  last 
of  deposed  Kings  in  the  first  epoch.  Not  blinded,  he,  as  far 
as  I  read  :  but  permitted,  I  trust  peaceably,  to  become  a  monk  ; 
Venice  owing  to  him  much  that  has  been  the  delight  of  her 
own  and  other  people's  eyes,  ever  since.  Respecting  the  oc- 
casion of  his  dethronement,  a  story  remains,  however,  very 
notably  in  connection  with  this  manner  of  punishment. 

Venice,  throughout  this  first  period  in  close  alliance  with  the 
Greeks,  sent  her  Doge,  in  the  year  1082,  with  a  "  valid  fleet, 
terrible  in  its  most  ordered  disposition,"  to  defend  the  Em- 
peror Alexis  against  the  Normans,  led  by  the  greatest  of  all 
Western  captains,  Guiscard. 

The  Doge  defeated  him  in  naval  battle  once ;  and,  on  the 
third  day  after,  once  again,  and  so  conclusively,  that,  think- 

1  Or  sometimes  pitifully  :  "  Olaf  was  by  no  means  an  unmerciful  man, 
— much,  the  reverse  where  he  Law  good  cause.  There  was  a  wicked  old 
King  Raerik,  for  example,  one  of  those  five  kinglets  whom,  with  their 
bits  of  armaments,  Olaf,  by  stratagem,  had  surrounded  one  night,  and 
at  once  bagged  and  subjected  when  morning  rose,  all  of  them  consont- 
ing  ; — all  of  them  except  this  Ra?rik,  whom  Olaf,  as  the  readiest  sure 
course,  took  home  with  him  ;  blinded,  and  kept  in  his  own  house,  find- 
ing there  was  no  alternative  but  that  or  death  to  the  obstinate  old  dog, 
who  was  a  kind  of  distant  cousin  withal,  and  could  not  conscientiously 
be  killed" — (Carlyle, — 1  Early  Kings  of  Norway,'  p.  121) -  conscience, 
and  kin-ship,  or  "kindliness,"  declining  somewhat  in  the  Norman  heart 
afterwards. 


DIVINE  PdGIIT. 


5? 


ing  the  debate  ended,  he  sent  his  lightest  ships  home,  and 
anchored  on  the  Albanian  coast  with  the  rest,  as  having  done 
his  work. 

But  Guiscard,  otherwise  minded  on  that  matter,  with  the 
remains  of  his  fleet, — and  his  Norman  temper  at  hottest, — . 
attacked  him  for  the  third  time.  The  Greek  allied  ships  fled. 
The  Venetian  ones,  partly  disabled,  had  no  advantage  in  their 
seamanship  :  1  question  only  remained,  after  the  battle,  how 
the  Venetians  should  bear  themselves  as  prisoners.  Guiscard 
put  out  the  eyes  of  some  ;  then,  with  such  penalty  impend- 
ing over  the  rest,  demanded  that  they  should  make  peace 
with  the  Normans,  and  fight  for  the  Greek  Emperor  no  more. 

But  the  Venetians  answered,  "  Know  thou,  Duke  Bobert, 
that  although  also  we  should  see  our  wives  and  children  slain, 
we  will  not  deny  our  covenants  with  the  Autocrat  Alexis  ; 
neither  will  we  cease  to  help  him,  and  to  fight  for  him  with 
our  whole  hearts." 

The  Norman  chief  sent  them  home  unransomed. 

There  is  a  high  water  mark  for  you  of  the  waves  of  Venetian 
and  Western  chivalry  in  the  eleventh  century.  A  very  notable 
scene  ;  the  northern  leader,  without  rival  the  greatest  soldier 
of  the  sea  whom  our  rocks  and  ice-bergs  bred  :  of  the  Vene- 
tian one,  and  his  people,  we  will  now  try  to  learn  the  charac- 
ter more  perfectly, — for  all  this  took  place  towards  the  close 
of  the  Doge  Selvo's  life.  You  shall  next  hear  what  I  can 
glean  of  the  former  course  of  it. 

In  the  year  1053,  the  Abbey  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  protector 
of  mariners,  had  been  built  at  the  entrance  of  the  port  of 
Venice  (where,  north  of  the  bathing  establishment,  you  now 
see  the  little  church  of  St.  Nicholas  of  the  Lido) ;  the  Doge 
Domenico  Contarini,  the  Patriarch  of  Grado,  and  the  Bishop 
of  Venice,  chiefly  finding  the  funds  for  such  edifice. 

When  the  Doge  Contarini  died,  the  entire  multitude  of  the 
people  of  Venice  came  in  armed  boats  to  the  Lido,  and  the 
Bishop  of  Venice,  and  the  monks  of  the  new  abbey  of  Si 
Nicholas,  joined  with  them  in  prayer, — the  monks  in  their 

1  Their  crews  had  eaten  all  their  stores,  and  their  shix)S  were  flying 
light,  and  would  not  steer  well. 


58 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


church  and  the  people  on  the  shore  and  in  their  boats,— that 
God  would  avert  all  dangers  from  their  country,  and  grant  to 
them  such  a  king  as  should  be  worthy  to  reign  over  it.  And 
as  they  prayed,  with  one  accord,  suddenly  there  rose  up 
among  the  multitude  the  cry,  "  Domenico  Selvo,  we  will,  and 
we  approve,"  whom  a  crowd  of  the  nobles  brought  instantly 
forward  thereupon,  and  raised  him  on  their  own  shoulders 
and  carried  him  to  his  boat ;  into  which  when  he  had  entered, 
he  put  off  his  shoes  from  his  feet,  that  he  might  in  all  humility 
approach  the  church  of  St.  Mark.  And  while  the  boats  began  to 
row  from  the  island  towards  Venice,  the  monk  who  saw  this,  and 
tells  us  of  it,  himself  began  to  sing  the  Te  Deum.  Ail  around, 
the  voices  of  the  people  took  up  the  hymn,  following  it  with 
the  Kyrie  Eleison,  with  such  litany  keeping  time  to  their  oars 
in  the  bright  noonday,  and  rejoicing  on  their  native  sea ;  all 
the  towers  of  the  city  answering  with  triumph  peals  as  they 
drew  nearer.  They  brought  their  Doge  to  the  Field  of  St. 
Mark,  and  carried  him  again  on  their  shoulders  to  the  porch 
of  the  church ;  there,  entering  barefoot,  with  songs  of  praise 
to  God  round  him — "such  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  vaults  must 
fall," — he  prostrated  himself  on  the  earth,  and  gave  thanks  to 
God  and  St.  Mark,  and  uttered  such  vow  as  was  in  his  heart 
to  offer  before  them.  Rising,  he  received  at  the  altar  the 
Venetian  sceptre,  and  thence  entering  the  Ducal  Palace,  re- 
ceived there  the  oath  of  fealty  from  the  people.1 

1  This  account  of  the  election  of  the  Doge  Selvo  is  given  by  Sanso- 
vino  ('  Venetia  descritta,'  Lib.  xi.  40  ;  Venice,  1663,  p.  477),— saying  at 
the  close  of  it  simply,  "  Thus  writes  Domenico  Rino,  who  was  his  chap- 
lain, and  who  was  present  at  what  I  have  related.17  Sansovino  seems 
therefore  to  have  seen  Rino's  manuscript ;  but  Romanin,  without 
referring  to  Sansovino,  gives  the  relation  as  if  he  had  seen  the  MS. 
himself,  but  misprints  the  chronicler's  name  as  Domenico  Tlho,  causing 
no  little  trouble  to  my  kind  friend  Mr.  Lorenzi  and  me,  in  hunting  at 
St.  Mark's  and  the  Correr  Museum  for  the  unheard-of  chronicle,  till 
Mr.  Lorenzi  traced  the  passage.  And  since  Sansovino's  time  nothing 
has  been  seen  or  further  said  of  the  Rino  Chronicle.— See  FoscarinL 
u  della  letteratura  Veneziana,"  Lib.  ii. 

Romanin  has  also  amplified  and  inferred  somewhat  beyond  Sanso- 
vino's words.    The  dilapidation  of  the  palace  furniture,  especially,  ii 


DIVINE  EIGHT, 


59 


Benighted  wretches,  all  of  them,  you  think,  prince  and 
people  alike,  don't  you  ?  They  were  pleasanter  creatures  to 
see,  at  any  rate,  than  any  you  will  see  in  St.  Mark's  field  now- 
adays. If  the  pretty  ladies,  indeed,  would  walk  in  the  porch 
like  the  Doge,  barefoot,  instead  of  in  boots  cloven  in  two  like 
the  devil's  hoofs,  something  might  be  said  for  them  ;  but 
though  they  will  recklessly  drag  their  dresses  through  it,  I 
suppose  they  would  scarcely  care  to  walk,  like  Greek  maids, 
in  that  mixed  mess  of  dust  and  spittle  with  which  modern  pro- 
gressive Venice  anoints  her  marble  pavement.  Pleasanter  to 
look  at,  I  can  assure  you,  this  multitude  delighting  in  their 
God  and  their  Duke,  than  these,  who  have  no  Paradise  to  trust 
to  with  better  gifts  for  them  than  a  gazette,  cigar,  and  pack 
of  cards  ;  and  no  better  governor  than  their  own  wills.  You 
will  see  no  especially  happy  or  wise  faces  produced  in  St. Mark's 
Place  under  these  conditions. 

Nevertheless,  the  next  means  that  the  Doge  Selvo  took  for 
the  pleasure  of  his  people  on  his  coronation  day  savored 
somewhat  of  modern  republican  principles.  He  gave  them 
f  the  pillage  of  his  palace  " — no  less  !  Whatever  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on,  these  faithful  ones,  they  might  carry  away 
with  them,  with  the  Doge's  blessing.  At  evening  he  laid  down 
the  uneasy  crowned  head  of  him  to  rest  in  mere  dismantled 
walls  ;  hands  dexterous  in  the  practices  of  profitable  warfare 
having  bestirred  themselves  all  the  day.  Next  morning  the 
first  Ducal  public  orders  were  necessarily  to  the  upholsterers 
and  furnishers  for  readornment  of  the  palace-rooms.  Not  by 
any  special  grace  this,  or  benevolent  novelty  of  idea  in  the 
good  Doge,  but  a  received  custom,  hitherto ;  sacred  enough, 
if  one  understands  it, — a  kind  of  mythical  putting  off  all  the 
burdens  of  one's  former  wealth,  and  entering  barefoot,  bare- 
body,  bare-soul,  into  this  one  duty  of  Guide  and  Lord,  light- 
ened thus  of  all  regard  for  his  own  affairs  or  properties. 
"Take  all  I  have,  from  henceforth  ;  the  corporal  vestments 

not  attributed  by  Sansovino  to  festive  pillage,  but  to  neglect  after  Con- 
tarini's  death.  Unquestionably,  however,  the  custom  alluded  to  in  th« 
text  existed  from  very  early  times. 


60 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


of  me,  and  all  that  is  in  their  pockets,  I  give  you  to-day ;  the 
stripped  life  of  me  is  yours  forever."  Such,  virtually,  the 
King's  vow. 

Frankest  largesse  thus  cast  to  his  electors  (modern  bribery 
is  quite  as  costly  and  not  half  so  merry),  the  Doge  set  himself 
to  refit,  not  his  own  palace  merely,  but  much  more,  God's 
house  :  for  this  prince  is  one  who  has  at  once  David's  "piety, 
and  soldiership,  and  Solomon's  love  of  fine  things  ;  a  perfect 
man,  as  I  read  him,  capable  at  once  and  gentle,  religious  and 
joyful,  in  the  extreme  :  as  a  warrior  the  match  of  Robert 
Guiscard,  who,  you  will  find,  was  the  soldier  par  excellence  of 
the  middle  ages,  but  not  his  match  in  the  wild-cat  cunning — 
both  of  them  alike  in  knightly  honor,  word  being  given.  As 
a  soldier,  I  say,  the  match  of  Guiscard,  but  not  holding  war 
for  the  pastime  of  life,  still  less  for  the  duty  of  Venice  or  her 
king.  Peaceful  affairs,  the  justice  and  the  joy  of  human  deeds 
— in  these  he  sought  his  power,  by  principle  and  passion 
equally  ;  religious,  as  we  have  seen ;  royal,  as  we  shall  pres- 
ently see  ;  commercial,  as  we  shall  finally  see  ;  a  perfect  man, 
recognized  as  such  with  concurrent  applause  of  people  and 
submission  of  noble  :  "  Domenico  Selvo,  we  will,  and  we  ap- 
prove. " 

No  flaw  in  him,  then  ?  Nay  ;  "  how  bad  the  best  of  us  !  " 
say  Punch,1  and  the  modern  evangelical.  Flaw  he  had,  such 
as  wisest  men  are  not  unliable  to,  with  the  strongest — Solomon, 
Samson,  Hercules,  Merlin  the  Magician. 

Liking  pretty  things,  how  could  he  help  liking  pretty  la- 
dies ?  He  married  a  Greek  maid,  who  came  with  new  and 
strange  light  on  Venetian  eyes,  and  left  wild  fame  of  herself  : 
how,  every  morning,  she  sent  her  handmaidens  to  gather  the 
dew  for  her  to  wash  with,  waters  of  earth  being  not  pure 
enough.  So,  through  lapse  of  fifteen  hundred  years,  de- 
scended into  her  Greek  heart  that  worship  in  the  Temple  of 
the  Dew. 

Of  this  queen's  extreme  luxury,  and  the  miraculousness  of 

1  Epitaph  on  the  Bishop  of  Winchester  (Wilberforce) ;  see  Fors,  Letter 
XLIL,  p.  210. 


DIVINE  RIGHT. 


61 


it  in  the  eyes  of  simple  Venice,  many  traditions  are  current 
among  later  historians ;  which,  nevertheless,  I  find  resolve 
themselves,  on  closer  inquiry,  into  an  appalled  record  of  the 
fact  that  she  would  actually  not  eat  her  meat  with  her  fingers, 
but  applied  it  to  her  mouth  with  "  certain  two -pronged  instru- 
ments 99 1  (of  gold,  indeed,  but  the  luxurious  sin,  in  Venetian 
eyes,  was  evidently  not  in  the  metal,  but  the  fork)  ;  and  that 
she  indulged  herself  greatly  in  the  use  of  perfumes :  especially 
about  her  bed,  for  which  whether  to  praise  her,  as  one  would 
an  English  housewife  for  sheets  laid  up  in  lavender,  or  to  cry 
haro  upon  her,  as  the  "  stranger  who  flattereth," 2  I  know 
not,  until  I  know  better  the  reason  of  the  creation  of  perfume 
itself,  and  of  its  use  in  Eastern  religion  and  delight — "  All  thy 
garments  smell  of  myrrh,  aloes,  and  cassia,  out  of  the  ivory 
palaces  whereby  thou  hast  made  me  glad 99 — fading  and  cor- 
rupting at  last  into  the  incense  of  the  mass,  and  the  extrait  de 
Mille-fleurs  of  Bond  Street.  What  I  do  know  is,  that  there 
was  no  more  sacred  sight  to  me,  in  ancient  Florence,  than  the 
Spezieria  of  the  Monks  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  with  its 
precious  vials  of  sweet  odors,  each  illuminated  with  the  little 
picture  of  the  flower  from  which  it  had  truly  been  distilled 
— and  yet,  that,  in  its  loaded  air  one  remembered  that  the 
flowers  had  grown  in  the  fields  of  the  Decameron. 

But  this  also  I  know,  and  more  surely,  that  the  beautiful 
work  done  in  St.  Mark's  during  the  Greek  girl's  reign  in 
Venice  first  interpreted  to  her  people's  hearts,  and  made  legi- 
ble to  their  eyes,  the  law  of  Christianity  in  its  eternal  harmony 
with  the  laws  of  the  Jew  and  of  the  Greek  :  and  gave  them- the 
glories  of  Venetian  art  in  true  inheritance  from  the  angels  of 
that  Athenian  Bock,  above  which  Ion  spread  his  starry  tapes- 
try,3 and  under  whose  shadow  his  mother  had  gathered  the 
crocus  in  the  dew. 

1  Cibos  digitii  non  tangebat,  sed  quibusdam  fuscinulis  aureis  et 
bidentibus  suo  ori  applicabat.''    (Petrus  Damianus,  quoted  by  Dandolo.) 

2  Proverbs  vii.,  5  and  17. 

3  I  have  myself  learned  more  of  the  real  meaning  of  Greek  myths 
from  Euripides  than  from  any  other  Greek  writer,  except  Pindar.  But 
I  do  not  at  present  know  of  any  English  rhythm  interpreting  him 


62 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

THE  REQUIEM. 

1.  As  I  re-read  the  description  I  gave,  thirty  years  since, 
of  St.  Mark*s  Church  ; — much  more  as  I  remember,  forty 
years  since,  and  before,  the  first  happy  hour  spent  in  trying 
to  paint  a  piece  of  it,  with  my  six-o'clock  breakfast  on  the  little 
cafe  table  beside  me  on  the  pavement  in  the  morning  shadow, 
I  am  struck,  almost  into  silence,  by  wonder  at  my  own  pert 
little  Protestant  mind,  which  never  thought  for  a  moment  of 
asking  what  the  Church  had  been  built  for ! 

Tacitly  and  complacently  assuming  that  I  had  had  the  en- 
tire truth  of  God  preached  to  me  in  Beresford  Chapel  in  the 
Walworth  Road, — recognizing  no  possible  Christian  use  or 
propriety  in  any  other  sort  of  chapel  elsewhere  ;  and  per- 
ceiving, in  this  bright  phenomenon  before  me,  nothing  of 
more  noble  function  than  might  be  in  some  new  and  radiant 
sea-shell,  thrown  up  for  me  on  the  sand ; — nay,  never  once  so 
much  as  thinking,  of  the  fair  shell  itself,  "Who  built  its 
domed  whorls,  then  ?  "  or  "  What  manner  of  creature  lives  in 

rightly — these  poor  sapless  measures  must  serve  my  turn — (Woodhull's  : 
1778.) 

"The  sacred  tapestry 
Then  taking  from  the  treasures  of  the  God, 
He  cover'd  o'er  the  whole,  a  wondrous  sight 
To  all  beholders  :  first  he  o'er  the  roof 
Threw  robes,  which  Hercules,  the  son  of  Jove, 
To  Phoebus  at  his  temple  brought,  the  spoils 
Of  vanquished  Amazons  ; 

On  which  these  pictures  by  the  loom  were  wrought ; 
Heaven  in  its  vast  circumference  all  the  stars 
Assembling  ;  there  his  courses  too  the  Sun 
Impetuous  drove,  till  ceas'd  his  waning  flame, 
And  with  him  drew  in  his  resplendent  train, 
Vesper's  clear  light ;  then  clad  in  sable  garb 
Night  hasten'd  ;  hastening  stars  accompanied 
Their  Goddess  ;  through  mid-air  the  Pleiades, 
And  with  his  falchion  arm'd,  Orion  mov'd. 
But  the  sides  he  covered 


THE  REQUIEM. 


63 


the  Inside  ? "  Much  less  ever  asking,  "  Who  is  lying  dead 
therein  ?" 

2.  A  marvellous  thing — the  Protestant  mind  !  Don't  think 
I  speak  as  a  Roman  Catholic,  good  reader :  I  am  a  mere  wan- 
dering Arab,  if  that  will  less  alarm  you,  seeking  but  my  cup 
of  cold  water  in  the  desert ;  and  I  speak  only  as  an  Arab,  or 
an  Indian, — with  faint  hope  of  ever  seeing  the  ghost  of 
Laughing  Water.  A  marvellous  thing,  nevertheless,  I  repeat, 
— this  Protestant  mind  !  Down  in  Brixton  churchyard,  all 
the  fine  people  lie  inside  railings,  and  their  relations  expect 
the  passers-by  to  acknowledge  reverently  who's  there  : — nay, 
only  last  year,  in  my  own  Cathedral  churchyard  of  Oxford,  I 
saw  the  new  grave  of  a  young  girl  fenced  about  duly  with 
carved  stone,  and  overlaid  with  flowers ;  and  thought  no 
shame  to  kneel  for  a  minute  or  two  at  the  foot  of  it, — though 
there  were  several  good  Protestant  persons  standing  by. 

But  the  old  leaven  is  yet  so  strong  in  me  that  I  am  very  shy 
of  being  caught  by  any  of  my  country  people  kneeling  near 
St.  Mark's  grave. 

''Because — you  know — it's  all  nonsense :  it  isn't  St.  Mark's 

With  yet  more  tapestry,  the  Barbaric  fleet 
To  that  of  Greece  opposed,  was  there  display'd  ; 
Followed  a  monstrous  brood,  half  horse,  half  man, 
The  Thracian  monarch's  furious  steed  subdu'd, 
And  lion  of  Nemsea." 

.    .    Underneath  those  craggy  rocks, 
North  of  Minerva's  citadel  (the  kings 
Of  Athens  call  them  Macra),    .    .  . 
Thou  cam'st,  resplendent  with  thy  golden  hair, 
As  I  the  crocus  gathered,  in  my  robe 
Each  vivid  flower  assembling,  to  compose 
Garlands  of  fragrance." 

The  composition  of  fragrant  garlands  out  of  crocuses  being  however 
Mr.  Michael  WoodhiuTs  improvement  on  Euripides.  Creusa's  words  are 
literally,  4  4  Thou  earnest,  thy  hair  flashing  with  gold,  as  I  let  fall  the  cro- 
cus petals,  gleaming  gold  back  again,  into  my  robe  at  my  bosom. "  Into 
the  folds  of  it,  across  her  breast ;  as  an  English  girl  would  have  let 
them  fall  into  her  lap. 


04 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


and  never  was," — say  my  intellectual  English  knot  of  shocked 
friends. 

I  suppose  one  must  allow  much  to  modern  English  zeal  for 
genuineness  in  all  commercial  articles.  Be  it  so.  Whether 
God  ever  gave  the  Venetians  what  they  thought  He  had  given, 
does  not  matter  to  us  ;  He  gave  them  at  least  joy  and  peace  in 
their  imagined  treasure,  more  than  we  have  in  our  real  ones. 

And  he  gave  them  the  good  heart  to  build  this  chapel,  over 
the  cherished  grave,  and  to  write  on  the  walls  of  it,  St.  Mark's 
gospel,  for  all  eyes, — and,  so  far  as  their  power  went,  for  all 
time. 

3.  But  it  was  long  before  I  learned  to  read  that ;  and  even 
when,  with  Lord  Lindsay's  first  help,  I  had  begun  spelling  it 
out, — the  old  Protestant  palsy  still  froze  my  heart,  though  my 
eyes  were  unsealed  ;  and  the  preface  to  the  Stones  of  Venice 
was  spoiled,  in  the  very  centre  of  its  otherwise  good  work  by 
that  blunder,  which  I've  left  standing  in  all  its  shame,  and 
with  its  hat  off — like  Dr.  Johnson  repentant  in  Lichfield 
Market, — only  putting  the  note  to  it  "  Fool  that  I  was  !  "  (page 
5).1  I  fancied  actually  that  the  main  function  of  St,  Mark's 
was  no  more  than  our  St.  George's  at  Windsor,  to  be  the  pri- 
vate chapel  of  the  king  and  his  knights  ; — a  blessed  function 
that  also,  but  how  much  lower  than  the  other  ? 

4.  "Chiesa  Ducale."  It  never  entered  my  heart  once  to 
think  that  there  was  a  greater  Duke  than  her  Doge,  for  Venice  ; 
and  that  she  built,  for  her  two  Dukes,  each  their  palace,  side 
by  side.  The  palace  of  the  living,  and  of  the, — Dead, — was 
he  then — the  other  Duke  ? 

"Viva  san  Marco." 

You  wretched  little  cast-iron  gaspipe  of  a  cockney  that  you 
are,  who  insist  that  your  soul's  your  own,  (see  " Punch"  for 
15th  March,  1879,  on  the  duties  of  Lent,)  as  if  anybody  else 

1  Scott  himself  (God  knows  I  say  it  sorrowfully,  and  not  to  excuse  my 
own  error,  but  to  prevent  Ms  from  doing  more  mischief,)  has  made  just 
the  same  mistake,  but  more  grossly  and  fatally,  in  the  character  given 
to  the  Venetian  Procurator  in  the  "  Talisman/'  His  error  is  more 
shameful,  because  he  has  confused  the  institutions  of  Venice  in  the  fif- 
teenth century  with  those  of  the  twelfth. 


THE  REQUIEM. 


05 


would  ever  care  to  have  it !  is  there  yet  life  enough  in  the  mole- 
cules, and  plasm,  and  general  mess  of  the  making  of  you, to  feel 
for  an  instant  what  that  cry  once  meant,  upon  the  lips  of  men  ? 

Viva,  Italia !  you  may  still  hear  that  cry  sometimes,  though 
she  lies  dead  enough.  Viva,  Vittor — Pisani ! — perhaps  also 
that  cry,  yet  again. 

But  the  answer, — "Not  Pisani,  but  St.  Mark,"  when  will 
you  hear  that  again,  nowadays  ?  Yet  when  those  bronze  horses 
were  won  by  the  Bosphorus,  it  was  St.  Mark's  standard,  not 
Henry  Dandolo's,  that  was  first  planted  on  the  tower  of  By- 
zantium,— and  men  believed — by  his  own  hand.  While  yet 
his  body  lay  here  at  rest :  and  this,  its  requiem  on  the  golden 
scroll,  was  then  already  written  over  it — in  Hebrew,  and  Greek, 
and  Latin. 

In  Hebrew,  by  the  words  of  the  prophets  of  Israel. 

In  Greek,  by  every  effort  of  the  building  laborer's  hand, 
and  vision  to  his  eyes. 

In  Latin,  with  the  rhythmic  verse  which  Virgil  had  taught, 
— calm  as  the  flowing  of  Mincio. 

But  if  you  will  read  it,  you  must  understand  now,  once 
for  all,  the  method  of  utterance  in  Greek  art, — here,  and  in 
Greece,  and  in  Ionia,  and  the  isles,  from  its  first  days  to  this 
very  hour. 

5.  I  gave  you  the  bas-relief  of  the  twelve  sheep  and  little 
caprioling  lamb  for  a  general  type  of  all  Byzantine  art,  to  fix 
in  your  mind  at  once,  respecting  it,  that  its  intense  first  char- 
acter is  symbolism.  The  thing  represented  means  more  than 
itself, — is  a  sign,  or  letter,  more  than  an  image. 

And  this  is  true,  not  of  Byzantine  art  only,  but  of  all  Greek 
art,  pur  sang.  Let  us  leave,  to-day,  the  narrow  and  degrad- 
ing word  "Byzantine."  There  is  but  one  Greek  school,  from 
Homer's  day  down  to  the  Doge  Selvo's  ;  and  these  St.  Mark's 
mosaics  are  as  truly  wrought  in  the  power  of  Daedalus,  with 
the  Greek  constructive  instinct,  and  in  the  power  of  Athena, 
with  the  Greek  religious  soul,  as  ever  chest  of  Cypselus  or 
shaft  of  Erechtheum.  And  therefore,  whatever  is  represented 
here,  be  it  flower  or  rock,  animal  or  man,  means  more  than  it 
is  in  itself.    Not  sheep,  these  twelve  innocent  woolly  things, 


66 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


— but  the  twelve  voices  of  the  gospel  of  heaven ; — not  palm* 
trees,  these  shafts  of  shooting  stem  and  beaded  fruit, — but 
the  living  grace  of  God  in  the  heart,  springing  up  in  joy  at 
Christ's  coming  ; — not  a  king,  merely,  this  crowned  creature 
in  his  sworded  state, — but  the  justice  of  God  in  His  eternal 
Law ; — not  a  queen,  nor  a  maid  only,  this  Madonna  in  her 
purple  shade, — but  the  love  of  God  poured  forth,  in  the  won- 
derfulness  that  passes  the  love  of  woman.  She  may  forget — 
yet  will  I  not  forget  thee. 

6.  And  in  this  function  of  his  art,  remember,  it  does  not 
matter  to  the  Greek  how  far  his  image  be  perfect  or  not. 
That  it  should  be  understood  is  enough, — if  it  can  be  beauti- 
ful also,  well ;  but  its  function  is  not  beauty,  but  instruction. 
You  cannot  have  purer  examples  of  Greek  art  than  the  draw- 
ings on  any  good  vase  of  the  Marathonian  time.  Black  figures 
on  a  red  ground, — a  few  white  scratches  through  them,  mark- 
ing the  joints  of  their  armor  or  the  folds  of  their  robes, — 
white  circles  for  eyes, — pointed  pyramids  for  beards, — you 
don't  suppose  that  in  these  the  Greek  workman  thought  he 
had  given  the  likeness  of  gods  ?  Yet  here,  to  his  imagination, 
were  Athena,  Poseidon,  and  Herakles, — and  all  the  powers 
that  guarded  his  land,  and  cleansed  his  soul,  and  led  him  in 
the  way  everlasting. 

7.  And  the  wider  your  knowledge  extends  over  the  distant 
days  and  homes  of  sacred  art,  the  more  constantly  and  clearly 
you  will  trace  the  rise  of  its  symbolic  function,  from  the 
rudest  fringe  of  racing  deer,  or  couchant  leopards,  scratched 
on  some  ill-kneaded  piece  of  clay,  when  men  had  yet  scarcely 
left  their  own  cave-couchant  life, — up  to  the  throne  of  Cima- 
bue's  Madonna.  All  forms,  and  ornaments,  and  images,  have 
a  moral  meaning  as  a  natural  one.  Yet  out  of  all,  a  restricted 
number,  chosen  for  an  alphabet,  are  recognized  always  as 
given  letters,  of  which  the  familiar  scripture  is  adopted  by 
generation  after  generation. 

8.  You  had  best  begin  reading  the  scripture  of  St.  Mark's 
on  the  low  cupolas  of  the  baptistery, — entering,  as  I  asked 
you  many  a  day  since,  to  enter,  under  the  tomb  of  the  Doge 
Andrea  Dandolo. 


THE  REQUIEM. 


You  see,  the  little  chamber  consists  essentially  of  two  parts, 
each  with  its  low  cupola  :  one  containing  the  Font,  the  othei 
the  Altar. 

The  one  is  significant  of  Baptism  with  water  unto  repentance. 

The  other  of  Resurrection  to  newness  of  life. 

Burial,  in  baptism  with  water,  of  the  lusts  of  the  flesh. 
Resurrection,  in  baptism  by  the  spirit — here,  and  now,  to  the 
beginning  of  life  eternal. 

Both  the  cupolas  have  Christ  for  their  central  figure  :  sur- 
rounded, in  that  over  the  font,  by  the  Apostles  baptizing  with 
water ;  in  that  over  the  altar,  surrounded  by  the  Powers  of 
Heaven,  baptizing  with  the  Holy  Ghost  and  with  fire.  Each 
of  the  Apostles,  over  the  font,  is  seen  baptizing  in  the  country 
to  which  he  is  sent. 

Their  legends,  written  above  them,  begin  over  the  door  of 
entrance  into  the  church,  with  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
end  with  St.  Mark — the  order  of  all  being  as  follows  : — 

St.  John  the  Evangelist  baptizes  in  Ephesus. 

St.  James  Judaea. 

St.  Philip  Phrygia. 

St.  Matthew  Ethiopia. 

St.  Simon  Egypt. 

St.  Thomas  India. 

St.  Andrew  Achaia. 

St.  Peter  Rome. 

St.  Bartholomew  (legend  indecipherable). 

St.  Thaddeus  Mesopotamia. 

St.  Matthias  Palestine. 

St.  Mark  Alexandria. 

Over  the  door  is  Herod's  feast.  Herodias'  daughter  dances 
with  St.  John  Baptist's  head  in  the  charger,  on  her  head, — 
simply  the  translation  of  any  Greek  maid  on  a  Greek  vase, 
bearing  a  pitcher  of  water  on  her  head. 

I  am  not  sure,  but  I  believe  the  picture  is  meant  to  repre- 
sent the  two  separate  times  of  Herod's  dealing  with  St.  John  ; 
and  that  the  figure  at  the  end  of  the  table  is  in  the  former 
time,  St.  John  saying  to  him,  "It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to 
have  her." 


08  ST  MARK'S  REST. 

9.  Pass  on  now  into  the  farther  chapel  under  the  darker 
dome. 

Darker,  and  very  dark  ; — to  my  old  eyes,  scarcely  decipher- 
able ; — to  yours,  if  young  and  bright,  it  should  be  beautiful, 
for  it  is  indeed  the  origin  of  all  those  golden-domed  back- 
grounds of  Bellini,  and  Cima,  and  Carpaccio  ;  itself  a  Greek 
vase,  but  with  new  Gods.  That  ten-winged  cherub  in  the  re- 
cess of  it,  behind  the  altar,  has  written  on  the  circle  on  its 
breast,  "  Fulness  of  Wisdom."  It  is  the  type  of  the  Breath  of 


K 

Z  - 

the  Spirit.  But  it  was  once  a  Greek  Harpy,  and  its  wasted 
limbs  remain,  scarcely  yet  clothed  with  flesh  from  the  claws 
of  birds  that  they  were. 

At  the  sides  of  it  are  the  two  powers  of  the  Seraphim  and 
Thrones :  the  Seraphim  with  sword  ;  the  Thrones  (tronis), 
with  Fleur-de-lys  sceptre, — lovely. 

Opposite,  on  the  arch  by  which  you  entered  are  The  Vir- 
tues, (VIRTUTES). 

A  dead  body  lies  under  a  rock,  out  of  which  spring  two  tor- 
rents— one  of  water,  one  of  fire.  The  Angel  of  the  Virtues 
calls  on  the  dead  to  rise. 

Then  the  circle  is  thus  completed  : 


6  4 
5 


THE  REQUIEM. 


69 


1,  being  the  Wisdom  angel ;  8,  the  Seraphim  ;  2,  the  Thrones; 
and  5,  the  Virtues.  3.  Dominations.  4.  Angels.  6.  Poten- 
tates.   7.  Princes :  the  last  with  helm  and  sword. 

Above,  Christ  Himself  ascends,  borne  in  a  whirlwind  of 
angels  ;  and,  as  the  vaults  of  Bellini  andCarpaccio  are  only  the 
amplification  of  the  Harpy- Vault,  so  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret 
is  only  the  final  fulfilment  of  the  thought  in  this  narrow  cupola. 

10.  At  your  left  hand,  as  you  look  towards  the  altar,  is  the 
most  beautiful  symbolic  design  of  the  Baptist's  death  that  I 
know  in  Italy.  Herodias  is  enthroned,  not  merely  as  queen  at 
Herod's  table,  but  high  and  alone,  the  type  of  the  Power  of 
evil  in  pride  of  womanhood,  through  the  past  and  future 
world,  until  Time  shall  be  no  longer. 

On  her  right  hand  is  St.  John's  execution  ;  on  her  left,  the 
Christian  disciples,  marked  by  their  black  crosses,  bear  his 
body  to  the  tomb. 

It  is  a  four-square  canopy,  round  arched ;  of  the  exact  type 
of  that  in  the  museum  at  Perugia,  given  to  the  ninth  cen- 
tury ;  but  that  over  Herodias  is  round-trefoiled,  and  there  is 
no  question  but  that  these  mosaics  are  not  earlier  than  the 
thirteenth  century. 

And  yet  they  are  still  absolutely  Greek  in  all  modes  of 
thought,  and  forms  of  tradition.  The  Fountains  of  fire  and 
water  are  merely  forms  of  the  Chimera  and  the  Peirene  ;  and 
the  maid  dancing,  though  a  princess  of  the  thirteenth  century 
in  sleeves  of  ermine,  is  yet  the  phantom  of  some  sweet  water- 
carrier  from  an  Arcadian  spring. 

11.  These  mosaics  are  the  only  ones  in  the  interior  of  the 
church  which  belong  to  the  time  (1204)  when  its  facade  was 
completed  by  the  placing  of  the  Greek  horses  over  its  central 
arch,  and  illumined  by  the  lovely  series  of  mosaics  still  rep- 
resented in  Gentile  Bellini's  pictures,  of  which  only  one  now 
remains.  That  one,  left  nearly  intact — as  Fate  has  willed — 
represents  the  church  itself  so  completed  ;  and  the  bearing  of 
the  body  of  St.  Mark  into  its  gates,  with  all  the  great  kings 
and  queens  who  have  visited  his  shrine,  standing  to  look  on  ; 
not  conceived,  mind  you,  as  present  at  any  actual  time,  but  as 
always  looking  on  in  their  hearts. 


70 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


12.  I  say  it  is  left  nearly  intact.  The  three  figures  on  the 
extreme  right  are  restorations  ;  and  if  the  reader  will  carefully 
study  the  difference  between  these  and  the  rest  ;  and  note 
how  all  the  faults  of  the  old  work  are  caricatured,  and  every 
one  of  its  beauties  lost — so  that  the  faces  which  in  the  older 
figures  are  grave  or  sweet,  are  in  these  three  new  ones  as  of 
staring  dolls, — he  will  know,  once  for  all,  what  kind  of  thanks 
he  owes  to  the  tribe  of  Eestorers — here  and  elsewhere. 

Please  note,  farther,  that  at  this  time  the  church  had  round 
arches  in  the  second  story,  (of  which  the  shells  exist  yet,)  but 
no  pinnacles  or  marble  fringes.  All  that  terminal  filigree  is  of  a 
far  later  age.  I  take  the  facade  as  you  see  it  stood — just  after 
1204 — thus  perfected.  And  I  will  tell  you,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  meaning  of  it,  and  of  what  it  led  to,  piece  by  piece. 

13.  I  begin  with  the  horses, — those  I  saw  in  my  dream  in 
1871, — "putting  on  their  harness."  See  u  Ariadne  Floren- 
tine" p.  203. 

These  are  the  sign  to  Europe  of  the  destruction  of  the 
Greek  Empire  by  the  Latin.  They  are  chariot  horses — the 
horses  of  the  Greek  quadriga, — and  they  were  the  trophies  of 
Henry  Dandolo.  That  is  all  you  need  know  of  them  just 
now  ;  more,  I  hope,  hereafter ;  but  you  must  learn  the  mean- 
ing of  a  Greek  quadriga  first.  They  stand  on  the  great  outer 
archivolt  of  the  facade  :  its  ornaments,  to  the  front,  are  of 
leafage  closing  out  of  spirals  into  balls  interposed  between  the 
figures  of  eight  Prophets  (or  Patriarchs?) — Christ  in  their 
midst  on  the  keystone.  No  one  would  believe  at  first  it  was 
thirteenth-century  work,  so  delicate  and  rich  as  it  looks  ;  nor 
is  there  anything  else  like  it  that  I  know,  in  Europe,  of  the 
date :  but  pure  thirteenth-century  work  it  is,  of  rarest  chisel- 
ling.  I  have  cast  two  of  its  balls  with  their  surrounding  leaf- 
age, for  St.  George's  Museum  ;  the  most  instructive  pieces  of 
sculpture  of  all  I  can  ever  show  there. 

14.  Nor  can  you  at  all  know  how  good  it  is,  unless  you 
will  learn  to  draw :  but  some  things  concerning  it  may  be 
seen,  by  attentive  eyes,  which  are  worth  the  dwelling  upon. 

You  see,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  outer  foliage  is  all  of 
one  kind — pure  Greek  Acanthus,— not  in  the  least  trans- 


THE  REQUIEM. 


71 


forming  itself  into  ivy,  or  kale,  or  rose  :  trusting  wholly  for  its 
beauty  to  the  varied  play  of  its  own  narrow  and  pointed  lobes. 

Narrow  and  pointed — but  not  jagged  ;  for  the  jagged  form 
of  Acanthus,  look  at  the  two  Jean  d'Acre  columns,  and  return 
to  this — you  will  then  feel  why  I  call  it  pure  ;  it  is  as  nearly 
as  possible  the  acanthus  of  early  Corinth,  only  more  flexible, 
and  with  more  incipient  blending  of  the  character  of  the  vine 
which  is  used  for  the  central  bosses.  You  see  that  each  leaf 
of  these  last  touches  with  its  point  a  stellar  knot  of  inwoven 
braid  ;  (compare  the  ornament  round  the  low  archivolt  of  the 
porch  on  your  right  below),  the  outer  acanthus  folding  all  in 
spiral  whorls. 

15.  Now  all  thirteenth-century  ornament  of  every  nation 
runs  much  into  spirals,  and  Irish  and  Scandinavian  earlier 
decoration  into  little  else.  But  these  spirals  are  different  from 
theirs.  The  Northern  spiral  is  always  elastic — like  that  of  a 
watch-spring.  The  Greek  spiral,  drifted  like  that  of  a  whirl- 
pool, or  whirlwind.  It  is  always  an  eddy  or  vortex — not  a 
living  rod,  like  the  point  of  a  young  fern. 

At  least,  not  living  its  own  life — but  under  another  life. 
It  is  under  the  power  of  the  Queen  of  the  Air  ;  the  power  also 
that  is  over  the  Sea,  and  over  the  human  mind.  The  first 
leaves  I  ever  drew  from  St.  Mark's  were  those  drifted  under 
the  breathing  of  it ; 1  these  on  its  uppermost  cornice,  far  love- 
lier, are  the  final  perfection  of  the  Ionic  spiral,  and  of  the 
thought  in  the  temple  of  the  Winds. 

Bat  perfected  under  a  new  influence.  I  said  there  was 
nothing  like  them  (that  I  knew)  in  European  architecture. 
But  there  is,  in  Eastern.  They  are  only  the  amplification  of 
the  cornice  over  the  arches  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem. 

16.  I  have  been  speaking  hitherto  of  the  front  of  the  arch 
only.  Underneath  it,  the  sculpture  is  equally  rich,  and  much 
more  animated.  It  represents, — What  think  you,  or  what 
would  you  have,  good  reader,  if  you  were  yourself  designing 
the  central  archivolt  of  your  native  city,  to  companion,  and 
even  partly  to  sustain,  the  stones  on  which  those  eight  Patri- 
archs were  carved — and  Christ  ? 

1  See  the  large  plate  of  two  capitals  in  early  folio  illustrations. 


72 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


The  great  men  of  your  city,  I  suppose, — or  the  good  wo- 
men of  it  ?  or  the  squires  round  about  it  ?  with  the  Master  of 
the  hounds  in  the  middle  ?  or  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  ? 
Well.  That  last  guess  comes  near  the  Venetian  mind,  only 
it  is  not  my  Lord  Mayor,  in  his  robes  of  state,  nor  the  Cor- 
poration at  their  city  feast ;  but  the  mere  Craftsmen  of  Ven- 
ice— the  Trades,  that  is  to  say,  depending  on  handicraft,  be- 
ginning with  the  shipwrights,  and  going  on  to  the  givers  of 
wine  and  bread — ending  with  the  carpenter,  the  smith,  and 
the  fisherman. 

Beginning,  I  say,  if  read  from  left  to  right,  (north  to  south, ) 
with  the  shipwrights ;  but  under  them  is  a  sitting  figure, 
though  sitting,  yet  supported  by  crutches.  I  cannot  read 
this  symbol  :  one  may  fancy  many  meanings  in  it, — but  I  do 
not  trust  fancy  in  such  matters.  Unless  I  know  what  a  sym- 
bol means,  I  do  not  tell  you  my  own  thoughts  of  it. 

17.  If,  however,  we  read  from  right  to  left,  Oriental  wise, 
the  order  would  be  more  intelligible.    It  is  then  thus : 

1.  Fishing. 

2.  Forging. 

3.  Sawing.    Rough  carpentry  ? 

4.  Cleaving  wood  with  axe.  Wheelwright? 

5.  Cask  and  tub  making. 

6.  Barber-surgery. 

7.  Weaving. 

Keystone — Christ  the  Lamb  ;  i.  e.,  in  humiliation. 

8.  Masonry. 

9.  Pottery. 

10.  The  Butcher. 

11.  The  Baker. 

12.  The  Vintner. 

13.  The  Shipwright.  And 

14.  The  rest  of  old  age  ? 

18.  But  it  is  not  here  the  place  to  describe  these  carvings 
to  you, — there  are  none  others  like  them  in  Venice  except  the 
bases  of  the  piazzetta  shafts  ;  and  there  is  little  work  like  them 


THE  REQUIEM. 


73 


elsewhere,  pure  realistic  sculpture  of  the  twelfth  and  thir- 
teenth centuries  ;  I  may  have  much  to  say  of  them  in  their 
day — not  now. 

Under  these  labourers  you  may  read,  in  large  letters,  a 
piece  of  history  from  the  Vienna  Morning  Post — or  whatever 
the  paper  was — of  the  year  1815,  wdth  which  we  are  not  con- 
cerned, nor  need  anybody  else  be  so,  to  the  end  of  time. 

Not  with  that ;  nor  with  the  mosaic  of  the  vault  beneath — 
flaunting  glare  of  Venetian  art  in  its  ruin.  No  vestige  of  old 
work  remains  till  we  come  to  those  steps  of  stone  ascending 
on  each  side  over  the  inner  archivolt ;  a  strange  method  of 
enclosing  its  curve  ;  but  done  with  special  purpose.  If  you 
look  in  the  Bellini  picture,  you  will  see  that  these  steps 
formed  the  rocky  midst  of  a  mountain  which  rose  over  them 
for  the  ground,  in  the  old  mosaic  ;  the  Mount  of  the  Beati- 
tudes. And  on  the  vault  above,  stood  Christ  blessing  for  ever 
— not  as  standing  on  the  Mount,  but  supported  above  it  by 
Angels. 

19.  And  on  the  archivolt  itself  were  carved  the  Virtues — 
with,  it  is  said,  the  Beatitudes  ;  but  I  am  not  sure  yet  of  any- 
thing in  this  archivolt,  except  that  it  is  entirely  splendid 
twelfth-century  sculpture.  I  had  the  separate  figures  cast  for 
my  English  museum,  and  put  off  the  examination  of  them 
when  I  was  overworked.  The  Fortitude,  Justice,  Faith,  and 
Temperance  are  clear  enough  on  the  right — and  the  keystone 
figure  is  Constancy,  but  I  am  sure  of  nothing  else  yet :  the 
less  that  interpretation  partly  depended  on  the  scrolls,  of 
which  the  letters  were  gilded,  not  carved  : — the  figures  also 
gilded,  in  Bellini's  time. 

Then  the  innermost  archivolt  of  all  is  of  mere  twelfth-cen- 
tury grotesque,  unworthy  of  its  place.  But  there  were  so 
many  entrances  to  the  atrium  that  the  bui]ders  did  not  care 
to  trust  special  teaching  to  any  one,  even  the  central,  except 
as  a  part  of  the  facade.  The  atrium,  or  outer  cloister  itself, 
was  the  real  porch  of  the  temple.  And  that  they  covered  with 
as  close  scripture  as  they  could — the  whole  Creation  and 
Book  of  Genesis  pictured  on  it. 

20.  These  are  the  mosaics  usually  attributed  to  the  Doge 


74 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


Selvo  :  I  cannot  myself  date  any  mosaics  securely  with  pre* 
cision,  never  having  studied  the  technical  structure  of  them  ; 
and  these  also  are  different  from  the  others  of  St.  Mark's  in 
being  more  Norman  than  Byzantine  in  manner ;  and  in  an 
ugly  admittance  and  treatment  of  nude  form,  which  I  find 
only  elsewhere  in  manuscripts  of  the  tenth  and  eleventh  cen- 
turies of  the  school  of  Monte  Cassino  and  South  Italy.-  On 
the  other  hand,  they  possess  some  qualities  of  thought  and 
invention  almost  in  a  sublime  degree.  But  I  believe  Selvo 
had  better  work  done  under  him  than  these.  Better  work  at 
all  events,  you  shall  now  see — if  you  will.  You  must  get  hold 
of  the  man  who  keeps  sweeping  the  dust  about,  in  St.  Mark's ; 
very  thankful  he  will  be,  for  a  lira,  to  take  you  up  to  the  gal- 
lery on  the  right-hand  side,  (south,  of  St.  Mark's  interior  ;) 
from  which  gallery,  where  it  turns  into  the  south  transept, 
you  may  see,  as  well  as  it  is  possible  to  see,  the  mosaic  of  the 
central  dome. 

21.  Christ  enthroned  on  a  rainbow,  in  a  sphere  supported 
by  four  flying  angels  underneath,  forming  white  pillars  of 
caryatid  mosaic.  Between  the  windows,  the  twelve  apostles, 
and  the  Madonna, — alas,  the  head  of  this  principal  figure 
frightfully  "  restored,"  and  I  think  the  greater  part  of  the 
central  subject.  Bound  the  circle  enclosing  Christ  is  written, 
"  Ye  men  of  Galilee,  why  stand  ye  at  gaze  ?  This  Son  of  God, 
Jesus,  so  taken  from  you,  departs  that  He  may  be  the  arbiter 
of  the  earth  :  in  charge  of  judgment  He  comes,  and  to  give  the 
laws  that  ought  to  be." 

22.  Such,  you  see,  the  central  thought  of  Venetian  worship. 
Not  that  we  shall  leave  the  world,  but  that  our  Master  will 
come  to  it :  and  such  the  central  hope  of  Venetian  worshij^ 
that  He  shall  come  to  judge  the  world  indeed  ;  not  in  a  last 
and  destroying  judgment,  but  in  an  enduring  and  saving 
judgment,  in  truth  and  righteousness  and  peace.  Catholic 
theology  of  the  purest,  lasting  at  all  events  down  to  the  thir- 
teenth century  ;  or  as  long  as  the  Byzantines  had  influence. 
For  these  are  typical  Byzantine  conceptions ;  how  far  taken 
up  and  repeated  by  Italian  workers,  one  cannot  say  ;  but  in 
their  gravity  of  purpose,  meagre  thinness  of  form,  and  rigid 


THE  REQUIEM. 


75 


drapery  lines,  to  be  remembered  by  you  with  distinctness  as 
expressing  the  first  school  of  design  in  Venice,  comparable  in  * 
an  instant  with  her  last  school  of  design,  by  merely  glancing 
to  the  end  of  the  north  transept,  where  that  rich  piece  of 
foliage,  full  of  patriarchs,  was  designed  by  Paul  Veronese. 
And  what  a  divine  picture  it  might  have  been,  if  he  had  only 
minded  his  own  business,  and  let  the  mosaic  workers  mind 
theirs ! — even  now  it  is  the  only  beautiful  one  of  the  late 
mosaics,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  the  genius  of  Veronese. 
All  I  want  you  to  feel,  however,  is  the  difference  of  temper 
from  the  time  when  people  liked  the  white  pillar-like  figures 
of  the  dome,  to  that  when  they  liked  the  dark  exuberance  of 
those  in  the  transept. 

23.  But  from  this  coign  of  vantage  you  may  see  much 
more.  Just  opposite  you,  and  above,  in  the  arch  crossing  the 
transept  between  its  cupola  and  the  central  dome,  are  mosaics 
of  Christ's  Temptation,  and  of  his  entrance  to  Jerusalem. 
The  upper  one,  of  the  Temptation,  is  entirely  characteristic  of 
the  B}rzantine  mythic  manner  of  teaching.  On  the  left,  Christ 
sits  in  the  rocky  cave  which  has  sheltered  Him  for  the  forty 
days  of  fasting  :  out  of  the  rock  above  issues  a  spring — mean- 
ing that  He  drank  of  the  waters  that  spring  up  to  everlasting 
life,  of  which  whoso  drinks  shall  never  thirst ;  and  in  His 
hand  is  a  book — the  living  Word  of  God,  which  is  His  bread. 
The  Devil  holds  up  the  stones  in  his  lap. 

Next  the  temptation  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Temple,  sym- 
bolic again,  wholly,  as  you  see, — in  very  deed  quite  impossi- 
ble :  so  also  that  on  the  mountain,  where  the  treasures  of  the 
world  are,  I  think,  represented  by  the  glittering  fragments 
on  the  mountain  top.  Finally,  the  falling  Devil,  cast  down 
head-foremost  in  the  air,  and  approaching  angels  in  minister- 
ing troops,  complete  the  stor}\ 

24.  And  on  the  whole,  these  pictures  are  entirely  represent- 
ative to  you  of  the  food  which  the  Venetian  mind  had  in  art, 
down  to  the  day  of  the  Doge  Selvo.  Those  were  the  kind  of 
images  and  shadows  they  lived  on:  you  may  think  of  them 
what  you  please,  but  the  historic  fact  is,  beyond  all  possible 
debate,  that  these  thin  dry  bones  of  art  were  nourishing  meat 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


to  the  Venetian  race  :  that  they  grew  and  throve  on  that  diet, 
every  day  spiritually  fatter  for  it,  and  more  comfortably  round 
}ri  human  soul : — no  illustrated  papers  to  be  had,  no  Academy 
Exhibition  to  be  seen.  If  their  eyes  were  to  be  entertained 
at  all,  such  must  be  their  lugubrious  delectation  ;  pleasure 
difficult  enough  to  imagine,  but  real  and  pure,  I  doubt  not;  even 
passionate.  In  as  quite  singularly  incomprehensible  fidelity 
of  sentiment,  my  cousin's  least  baby  has  fallen  in  love  with  a 
wooden  spoon  ;  Paul  not  more  devoted  to  Virginia.  The  two 
are  inseparable  all  about  the  house,  vainly  the  unimaginative 
bystanders  endeavouring  to  perceive,  for  their  part,  any  ami- 
ableness  in  the  spoon.  But  baby  thrives  in  his  pacific  attach- 
ment,— nay,  is  under  the  most  perfect  moral  control,  pliant  as 
a  reed,  under  the  slightest  threat  of  being  parted  from  his 
spoon.  And  I  am  assured  that  the  crescent  Venetian  imagina- 
tion did  indeed  find  pleasantness  in  these  figures  ;  more  es- 
pecially,— which  is  notable — in  the  extreme  emaciation  of 
them, — a  type  of  beauty  kept  in  their  hearts  down  to  the  Vi- 
varini  days ;  afterwards  rapidly  changing  to  a  very  opposite 
ideal  indeed. 

25.  Nor  even  in  its  most  ascetic  power,  disturbing  these 
conceptions  of  what  was  fitting  and  fair  in  their  own  persons, 
or  as  a  nation  of  fishermen.  They  have  left  us,  happily,  a 
picture  of  themselves,  at  their  greatest  time — unnoticed,  so 
far  as  I  can  read,  by  any  of  their  historians,  but  left  for  poor 
little  me  to  discover — and  that  by  chance — like  the  inscrip- 
tion on  St.  James's  of  the  Rialto. 

But  before  going  on  to  see  this,  look  behind  you,  where  you 
stand,  at  the  mosaic  on  the  west  wall  of  the  south  transept. 

It  is  not  Byzantine,  but  rude  thirteenth -century,  and  for- 
tunately left,  being  the  representation  of  an  event  of  some 
import  to  Venice,  the  recovery  of  the  lost  body  of  St.  Mark. 

You  may  find  the  story  told,  with  proudly  polished,  or 
loudly  impudent,  incredulity,  in  any  modern  guide-book.  I 
will  not  pause  to  speak  of  it  here,  nor  dwell,  yet,  on  this  mo- 
saic, which  is  clearly  later  than  the  story  it  tells  by  two  hun- 
dred years.  "We  will  go  on  to  the  picture  which  shows  us 
things  as  they  were,  in  its  time. 


THE  REQUIEM. 


77 


26.  You  must  go  round  the  transept  gallery,  and  get  the 
door  opened  into  the  compartment  of  the  eastern  aisle,  in 
which  is  the  organ.  And  going  to  the  other  side  of  the  square 
stone  gallery,  and  looking  back  from  behind  the  organ,  you 
will  see  opposite,  on  the  vault,  a  mosaic  of  upright  figures  in 
dresses  of  blue,  green,  purple,  and  white,  variously  embroid- 
ered wTith  gold. 

These  represent,  as  you  are  told  by  the  inscription  above 
them — the  Priests,  the  Clergy,  the  Doge,  and  the  people  of 
Venice  ;  and  are  an  abstract,  at  least,  or  epitome  of  those 
personages,  as  they  were,  and  felt  themselves  to  be,  in  those 
days. 

I  believe,  early  twelfth-century — late  eleventh  it  might  be 
— later  twelfth  it  may  be, — it  does  not  matter  :  these  were 
the  people  of  Venice  in  the  central  time  of  her  unwearied 
life,  her  unsacrificed  honour,  her  unabated  power,  and  sacred 
faith.  Her  Doge  wears,  not  the  contracted  shell-like  cap,  but 
the  imperial  crown.  Her  priests  and  clergy  are  alike  mitred 
— not  with  the  cloven,  but  simple,  cap,  like  the  conical  hel- 
met of  a  knight.  Her  people  are  also  her  soldiers,  and  their 
Captain  bears  his  sword,  sheathed  in  black. 

So  far  as  features  could  be  rendered  in  the  rude  time,  the 
faces  are  all  noble — (one  horribly  restored  figure  on  the  right 
shows  what  ^'nobleness,  on  this  large  scale,  modern  brutality 
and  ignorance  can  reach)  ;  for  the  most  part,  dark-eyed,  but 
the  Doge  brown-eyed  and  fair-haired,  the  long  tresses  falling 
on  his  shoulders,  and  his  beard  braided  like  that  of  an  Etrus- 
can king. 

27.  And  this  is  the  writing  over  them. 

Pontifices.    Clerus.    Populus.    Dux  mente  serenus.  1 
The  Priests,  the  Clergy,  the  People,  the  Duke,  serene  of 
mind. 

Most  Serene  Highnesses  of  all  the  after  Time  and  World, — 

1  The  continuing  couplet  of  monkish  Latin, 
"  Laudibus  atque  choris 
Excipiunt  dulce  canoris," 
may  perhaps  have  "been  made  worse  or  less  efficient  Latin  by  some  mis 
take  in  restoration 


78 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


how  many  of  you  knew,  or  know,  what  this  Venice,  first  to 
give  the  title,  meant  by  her  Duke's  Serenity  !  and  why  she 
trusted  it  ? 

The  most  precious  "  historical  picture  "  this,  to  my  mind, 
of  any  in  worldly  gallery,  or  unworldly  cloister,  east  or  west ; 
but  for  the  present,  all  I  care  for  you  to  learn  of  it,  is  that 
these  were  the  kind  of  priests,  and  people,  and  kings,  wTho 
wrote  this  Requiem  of  St.  Mark,  of  which,  now,  we  will  read 
what  more  we  may. 

28.  If  you  go  up  in  front  of  the  organ,  you  may  see,  better 
than  from  below,  the  mosaics  of  the  eastern  dome. 

This  part  of  the  church  must  necessarily  have  been  first 
completed,  because  it  is  over  the  altar  and  shrine.  In  it,  the 
teaching  of  the  Mosaic  legend  begins,  and  in  a  sort  ends  ; — 
"  Christ  the  King,"  foretold  of  Prophets — declared  of  Evan- 
gelists— born  of  a  Virgin  in  due  time  ! 

But  to  understand  the  course  of  legend,  you  must  know 
what  the  Greek  teachers  meant  by  an  Evangelion,  as  distinct 
from  a  Prophecy.  Prophecy  is  here  thought  of  in  its  nar- 
rower sense  as  the  foretelling  of  a  good  that  is  to  be. 

But  an  Evangelion  is  the  voice  of  the  Messenger,  saying,  it 
is  here. 

And  the  four  mystic  Evangelists,  under  the  figures  of  living 
creatures,  are  not  types  merely  of  the  men  that  are  to  bring 
the  Gospel  message,  but  of  the  power  of  that  message  in  all 
Creation — so  far  as  it  was,  and  is,  spoken  in  all  living  things, 
and  as  the  "Word  of  God,  which  is  Christ,  was  present,  and 
not  merely  prophesied,  in  the  Creatures  of  His  hand. 

29.  You  will  find  in  your  Murray,  and  other  illumined  writ- 
ings of  the  nineteenth  century,  various  explanations  given  of 
the  meaning  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark — derived,  they  occasion- 
ally mention  (nearly  as  if  it  had  been  derived  by  accident !), 
from  the  description  of  Ezekiel. 1  Which,  perhaps,  you  may 
have  read  once  on  a  time,  though  even  that  i3  doubtful  in 
these  blessed  days  of  scientific  education  ; — but,  boy  or  girl, 
man  or  woman,  of  you,  not  one  in  a  thousand,  if  one,  has 

'Or,  with  still  more  enlightened  Scripture  research,  frcm  "  one  of 
the  visions  of  Daniel"  !    (Sketches,  etc.,  p.  18.) 


THE  REQUIEM. 


79 


ever,  I  am  well  assured,  asked  what  was  the  use  of  Ezekiel's 
Vision,  either  to  Ezekiel,  or  to  anybody  else  ;  any  more  than 
I  used  to  think,  myself,  what  St.  Mark's  was  built  for. 

In  case  you  have  not  a  Bible  with  you,  I  must  be  tedious 
enough  to  reprint  the  essential  verses  here. 

30.  "  As  I  was  among  the  Captives  by  the  River  of  Chebar, 
the  Heavens  were  opened,  and  I  saw  visions  of  God." 

(Fugitive  at  least, — and  all  but  captive, — by  the  River  of  the 
deep-  stream, — the  Venetians  perhaps  cared  yet  to  hear  what 
he  saw.) 

■"  In  the  fifth  year  of  King  Jehoiachin's  captivity,  the  word 
of  the  Lord  came  expressly  unto  Ezekiel  the  Priest." 

(We  also — we  Venetians — have  our  Pontifices  ;  we  also  our 
King.    May  we  not  hear  ?) 

"  And  I  looked,  and,  behold,  a  whirlwind  came  out  of  the 
north,  and  a  fire  infolding  itself.  Also  in  the  midst  thereof 
was  1  the  likeness  of  Four  living  Creatures. 

"And  this  was  the  aspect  of  them  ;  the  Likeness  of  a  Man 
was  upon  them. 

"  And  every  one  had  four  faces,  and  every  one  four  wings. 
And  they  had  the  hands  of  a  Man  under  their  wings.  And 
their  wings  were  stretched  upward,  two  wings  of  every  one 
were  joined  one  to  another,  and  two  covered  their  bodies. 
And  when  they  went,  I  heard  the  noise  of  their  wings,  like  the 
noise  of  great  waters,  as  the  voice  of  the  Almighty,  the  voice 
of  speech,  the  noise  of  an  Host." 

(To  us  in  Venice,  is  not  the  noise  of  the  great  waters  known 
— and  the  noise  of  an  Host  ?  May  we  hear  also  the  voice  of 
the  Almighty  ?) 

"And  they  went  every  one  straight  forward.  Whither  the 
Spirit  was  to  go,  they  went.  And  this  was  the  likeness  of  their 
faces  :  they  four  had  the  face  of  a  Man  "  (to  the  front),  "  and 
the  face  of  a  Lion  on  the  right  side,  and  the  face  of  an  Ox  on 
the  left  side,  and"  (looking  back)  "the  face  of  an  Eagle." 

And  not  of  an  Ape,  then,  my  beautifully-browed  cockney 
friend  ? — the  unscientific  Prophet !    The  face  of  Man  ;  and  of 

1  What  alterations  I  make  are  from  the  Septuagint. 


so 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


the  wild  beasts  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  tame,  and  of  the  birda 
of  the  air.    This  was  the  Vision  of  the  Glory  of  the  Lord. 

31.  "  And  as  I  beheld  the  living  creatures,  behold,  one  wheel 
upon  the  earth,  by  the  living  creatures,  with  his  four  faces, 
.  .  .  and  their  aspect,  and  their  work,  was  as  a  wheel  in  the 
midst  of  a  wheel." 

Crossed,  that  is,  the  meridians  of  the  four  quarters  of  the 
earth.  (See  Holbein's  drawing  of  it  in  his  Old  Testament 
series.) 

"  And  the  likeness  of  the  Firmament  upon  the  heads  of  the 
living  creatures  was  as  the  colour  of  the  terrible  crystal. 

"  And  there-  was  a  voice  from  the  Firmament  that  was  over 
their  heads,  when  they  stood,  and  had  let  down  their  wings. 

"  And  above  the  Firmament  that  was  over  their  heads  was 
the  likeness  of  a  Throne  ;  and  upon  the  likeness  of  the 
Throne  was  the  likeness  of  the  Aspect  of  a  Man  above,  upon 
it. 

"  And  from  His  loins  round  about  I  saw  it  as  it  were  the 
appearance  of  fire  ;  and  it  had  brightness  round  about,  as  the 
bow  that  is  in  the  cloud  in  the  day  of  rain.  This  was  the 
appearance  of  the  likeness  of  the  Glory  of  the  Lord.  And 
when  I  saw  it,  I  fell  upon  my  face." 

32.  Can  any  of  us  do  the  like — or  is  it  worth  while  ? — 
with  only  apes'  faces  to  fail  upon,  and  the  forehead  that  re- 
fuses to  be  ashamed  ?  Or  is  there,  nowadays,  no  more  any- 
thing for  us  to  be  afraid  of,  or  to  be  thankful  for,  in  all  the 
wheels,  and  flame,  and  light,  of  earth  and  heaven  ? 

This  that  follows,  after  the  long  rebuke,  is  their  Evange- 
lion.  This  the  sum  of  the  voice  that  speaks  in  them,  (chap, 
xi.  16). 

"  Therefore  say,  thus  saith  the  Lord.  Though  I  have  cast 
them  far  off  among  the  heathen,  yet  will  I  be  to  them  as  a 
little  sanctuary  in  the  places  whither  they  shall  come. 

"  And  I  will  give  them  one  heart ;  and  I  will  put  a  new 
spirit  within  them  ;  and  I  will  take  the  stony  heart  out  of 
their  flesh,  and  will  give  them  a  heart  of  flesh.  That  they 
may  walk  in  my  statutes,  and  keep  mine  ordinances  and  do 
them,  and  they  shall  be  my  people,  and  I  will  be  their  God. 


THE  REQUIEM. 


81 


"Then  did  the  Cherubims  lift  up  their  wings,  and  the 
wheels  beside  them,  and  the  glory  of  the  God  of  Israel  was 
over  them  above. " 

33.  That  is  the  story  of  the  Altar- Vault  of  St.  Mark's,  of 
which  though  much  was  gone,  yet,  when  I  was  last  in  Venice, 
much  was  left,  wholly  lovely  and  mighty.  The  principal  fig- 
ure of  the  Throned  Christ  was  indeed  forever  destroyed 
by  the  restorer ;  but  the  surrounding  Prophets,  and  the 
Virgin  in  prayer,  at  least  retained  so  much  of  their  ancient 
colour  and  expression  as  to  be  entirely  noble, — if  only  one 
had  nobility  enough  in  one's  own  thoughts  to  forgive  the 
failure  of  any  other  human  soul  to  speak  clearly  what  it  had 
felt  of  the  most  divine. 

My  notes  have  got  confused  and  many  lost ;  and  now  I 
have  no  time  to  mend  the  thread  of  them  :  I  am  not  sure  even 
if  I  have  the  list  of  the  Prophets  complete  ;  but  these  follow- 
ing at  least  you  will  find,  and  (perhaps  with  others  between) 
in  this  order— chosen,  each,  for  his  message  concerning 
Christ,  which  is  written  on  the  scroll  he  bears. 

34. 

1.  On  the  Madonna's  left  hand,  Isaiah.    "Behold,  a 

a  virgin  shall  conceive."  (Written  as  far  as 
"Immanuel.") 

2.  Jeremiah.    "  Hie  est  in  quo, — Deus  Noster." 

3.  Daniel.    "  Cum  venerit "  as  far  as  to  "  cessabit 

unctio." 

4.  Obadiah.    "  Ascendit  sanctus  in  Monte  Syon." 

5.  Habakkuk.    ' 'God  shall  come  from  the  South,  and 

the  Holy  One  from  Mount  Paran." 

6.  Hosea.  (Undeciphered.) 

7.  Jonah.  (Undeciphered.) 

8.  Zephaniah.    "  Seek  ye  the  Lord,  all  in  the  gentle 

time  *'  (in  mansueti  tempore). 

9.  Haggai.    "  Behold,  the  desired  of  all  nations  shall 

come. " 

10.  Zachariah.     "Behold  a  man  whose  name  is  the 
Branch. '    ( Oriens. ) 


82 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


11.  Malaclii.    "Behold,  I  send  my  messenger,'5  eta 

(angelum  meum). 

12.  Solomon.    "Who  is  this  that  ascends  as  th« 

morning  ?  " 

13.  David.    "  Of  the  fruit  of  thy  body  will  I  set  upon 

thy  throne. " 

35.  The  decorative  power  of  the  colour  in  these  figures, 
chiefly  blue,  purple,  and  white,  on  gold,  is  entirely  admirable, 
— more  especially  the  dark  purple  of  the  Virgin's  robe,  with 
lines  of  gold  for  its  folds ;  and  the  figures  of  David  and  Solo- 
mon, both  in  Persian  tiaras,  almost  Arab,  with  falling  lappets 
to  the  shoulder,  for  shade  ;  David  holding  a  book  with  He- 
brew letters  on  it  and  a  cross,  (a  pretty  sign  for  the  Psalms  ;) 
and  Solomon  with  rich  orbs  of  lace  like  involved  ornament  on 
his  dark  robe,  cusped  in  the  short  hem  of  it,  over  gold  un- 
derneath. And  note  in  all  these  mosaics  that  Byzantine 
"  purple," — the  colour  at  once  meaning  Kinghood  and  its 
Sorrow, — is  the  same  as  ours — not  scarlet,  but  amethyst,  and 
that  deep. 

36.  Then  in  the  spandrils  below,  come  the  figures  of  the 
four  beasts,  with  this  inscription  round,  for  all  of  them. 

"  qljaeque  sub  obscuris 
De  Cristo  dicta  figuris 
His  aperire  datur 
Et  in  his,  Deus  ipse  notattjr." 

"  Whatever  things  under  obscure  figures  have  been  said  of 
Christ,  it  is  given  to  these "  (creatures)  "  to  open  ;  and  in 
these,  Christ  himself  is  seen." 

A  grave  saying.  Not  in  the  least  true  of  mere  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke,  and  John.  Christ  was  never  seen  in  them, 
though  told  of  by  them.  But,  as  the  Word  by  which  all 
things  were  made,  He  is  seen  in  all  things  made,  and  in  the 
Poiesis  of  them  :  and  therefore,  when  the  vision  of  Ezekiel  is 
repeated  to  St.  John,  changed  only  in  that  the  four  creatures 
are  to  him  more  distinct — each  with  its  single  aspect,  and  not 
each  fourfold, — they  are  full  of  eyes  within,  and  rest  not  day 


THE  REQUIEM. 


83 


nor  night, — saying,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  God  Almighty, 
which  art,  and  wast,  and  art  to  come." 

37.  We  repeat  the  words  habitually,  in  our  own  most  solemn 
religious  service  ;  hut  we  repeat  without  noticing  out  of 
whose  mouths  they  come. 

"Therefore,"  (we  say,  in  much  self-satisfaction,)  "with 
Angels  and  Archangels,  and  with  all  the  Company  of  heaven," 
(meaning  each  of  us,  I  suppose,  the  select  Company  we  ex- 
pect to  get  into  there,)  "we  laud  and  magnify,"  etc.  But  it 
ought  to  make  a  difference  in  our  estimate  of  ourselves,  and 
of  our  power  to  say,  with  our  hearts,  that  God  is  Holy,  if  we 
remember  that  we  join  in  saying  so,  not,  for  the  present,  with 
the  Angels, — but  with  the  Beasts. 

38.  Yet  not  with  every  manner  of  Beast ;  for  afterwards, 
when  all  the  Creatures  in  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  the  Sea, 
join  in  the  giving  of  praise,  it  is  only  these  four  who  can  say 
"Amen." 

The  Ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn  ;  and  the  Lion  that  shall 
shall  eat  straw  like  the  Ox,  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb ;  and 
the  Eagle  that  fluttereth  over  her  young  ;  and  the  human 
creature  that  loves  its  mate,  and  its  children.  In  these  four 
is  all  the  power  and  all  the  charity  of  earthly  life  ;  and  in 
such  power  and  charity  "  Deus  ipse  notatur." 

39.  Notable,  in  that  manner,  He  was,  at  least,  to  the  men 
who  built  this  shrine  where  once  was  St.  Theodore's  ; — not  be- 
traying nor  forgetting  their  first  master,  but  placing  his  statue, 
with  St.  Mark's  Lion,  as  equal  powers  upon  their  pillars  of 
justice  ; — St.  Theodore,  as  you  have  before  heard,  being  the 
human  spirit  in  true  conquest  over  the  inhuman,  because  in 
true  sympathy  with  it — not  as  St.  George  in  contest  with,  but 
being  strengthened  and  pedestalled  by,  the  "  Dragons  and  all 
Deeps." 

40.  But  the  issue  of  all  these  lessons  we  cannot  yet  meas- 
ure ;  it  is  only  now  that  we  are  beginning  to  be  able  to  read 
them,  in  the  myths  of  the  past,  and  natural  history  of  the 
present  world.  The  animal  gods  of  Egypt  and  Assyria,  the 
animal  cry  that  there  is  no  God,  of  the  passing  hour,  are,  both 
of  them,  part  of  the  rudiments  of  the  religion  yet  to  be  re- 


84: 


ST  MARICS  REST. 


vealed,  in  the  rule  of  the  Holy  Spirit  over  the  venomous  dust, 
when  the  sucking  child  shall  play  by  the  hole  of  the  asp,  and 
the  weaned  child  lay  his  hand  on  the  cockatrice  den. 

41.  And  now,  if  you  have  enough  seen,  and  understood, 
this  eastern  dome  and  its  lesson,  go  down  into  the  church 
under  the  central  one,  and  consider  the  story  of  that. 

Under  its  angles  are  the  four  Evangelists  themselves,  drawn 
as  men,  and  each  with  his  name.  And  over  them  the  inscrip- 
tion is  widely  different.1 

"  Sic  actus  Christi 
Describunt  quatuor  isti 
Quod  neque  natura 
Liter  nent,  neo  utrinque  figura." 

u  Thus  do  these  four  describe  the  Acts  of  Christ.  And 
weave  his  story,  neither  by  natural  knowledge,  nor,  contrari- 
wise, by  any  figure." 

Compare  now  the  two  inscriptions.  In  the  living  creatures, 
Christ  himself  is  seen  by  nature  and  by  figure.  But  these 
four  tell  us  his  Acts,  "Not  by  nature — not  by  figure."  How 
then  ? 

42.  You  have  had  various  "lives  of  Christ,"  German  and 
other,  lately  provided  among  your  other  severely  historical 
studies.  Some,  critical ;  and  some,  sentimental.  But  there 
is  only  one  light  by  which  you  can  read  the  life  of  Christ, — 
the  light  of  the  life  you  now  lead  in  the  flesh  ;  and  that  not 
the  natural,  but  the  won  life.  "  Nevertheless,  I  live  ;  yet  not 
I,  but  Christ  liveth  in  me." 

Therefore,  round  the  vault,  as  the  pillars  of  it,  are  the 
Christian  virtues  ;  somewhat  more  in  number,  and  other  in 
nature,  than  the  swindling-born  and  business-bred  virtues 
which  most  Christians  nowadays  are  content  in  acquiring. 
Bat  these  old  Venetian  virtues  are  compliant  also,  in  a  way. 

1  I  give,  and  construe,  this  legend  as  now  written,  but  the  five  letters 
"  liter  "  are  recently  restored,  and  I  suspect  them  to  have  been  origi- 
nally either  three  or  six,  "cer"  or  "  discer. "  In  all  the  monkish 
rhymes  I  have  yet  read,  I  don't  remember  any  so  awkward  a  division 
as  this  of  natura-liter. 


THE  REQUIEM. 


85 


They  are  for  sea-life,  and  there  is  one  for  every  wind  that 
blows. 

43.  If  you  stand  in  mid-nave,  looking  to  the  altar,  the  first 
narrow  window  of  the  cupola — (I  call  it  first  for  reasons  pres- 
ently given)  faces  you,  in  the  due  east.  Call  the  one  next  it, 
on  your  right,  the  second  window  ;  it  bears  east-south-east 
The  third,  south-east ;  the  fourth,  south-south-east ;  the  fifth, 
south  ;  the  ninth,  west ;  the  thirteenth,  north;  and  the  six- 
teenth, east-north-east. 

The  Venetian  Virtues  stand,  one  between  each  window. 
On  the  sides  of  the  east  window  stand  Fortitude  and  Tem- 
perance ;  Temperance  the  first,  Fortitude  the  last :  "  he  that 
endure th  to  the  end,  the  same  shall  be  saved." 

Then  their  order  is  as  follows  :  Temperance  between  the 
first  and  second  windows, — (quenching  fire  with  water) ; — be- 
tween the  second  and  third,  Prudence  ;  and  then,  in  sequence, 

in.  Humility. 

iv.  Kindness,  (Benignitas). 

v.  Compassion. 

vi.  Abstinence. 
vii.  Mercy, 
vim  Long-suffering. 

rx.  Chastity. 

x.  Modesty. 

xi.  Constancy. 

xii.  Charity. 

xiii.  Hope. 

xiv.  Faith, 
xv.  Justice. 

xvi.  Fortitude. 

44.  I  meant  to  have  read  all  their  legends,  but  "  could  do 
it  any  time,"  and  of  course  never  did ! — but  these  following 
are  the  most  important.  Charity  is  put  twelfth  at  the  last  at- 
tained of  the  virtues  belonging  to  human  life  only  :  but  she 
is  called  the  "  Mother  of  the  Virtues  " — meaning,  of  them  all, 
when  they  become  divine  ;  and  chiefly  of  the  four  last,  which 


86 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


relate  to  the  other  world.  Then  Long-suffering,  (Patientia,) 
has  for  her  legend,  "  Blessed  are  the  Peacemakers  "  ;  Chastity, 
" Blessed  are  the  Pure  in  Heart"  ;  Modesty,  "Blessed  are  ye 
when  men  hate  you  "  ;  while  Constancy  (consistency)  has  the 
two  heads,  balanced,  one  in  each  hand,  which  are  given  to 
the  keystone  of  the  entrance  arch  :  meaning,  I  believe,  the 
equal  balance  of  a  man's  being,  by  which  it  not  only  stands, 
but  stands  as  an  arch,  with  the  double  strength  of  the  two 
sides  of  his  intellect  and  soul.  "  Qui  sibi  constat."  Then  note 
that  "Modestia"  is  here  not  merely  sham efacedn ess,  though 
it  includes  whatever  is  good  in  that ;  but  it  is  contentment  in 
being  thought  little  of,  or  hated,  when  one  thinks  one  ought 
to  be  made  much  of — a  very  difficult  virtue  to  acquire  indeed, 
as  I  know  some  people  who  know. 

45.  Then  the  order  of  the  circle  becomes  entirely  clear. 
All  strength  of  character  begins  in  temperance,  prudence,  and 
lowliness  of  thought.  Without  these,  nothing  is  possible,  of 
noble  humanity :  on  these  follow — kindness,  (simple,  as  op- 
posed to  malice),  and  compassion,  (sympathy,  a  much  rarer 
quality  than  mere  kindness)  ;  then,  seli-restriction,  a  quite  dif- 
ferent and  higher  condition  than  temperance, — the  first  being 
not  painful  when  rightly  practised,  but  the  latter  always  so  ; — 
("I  held  my  peace,  even  from  good  " — "  quanto  quisque  sibi 
plura  negaverit,  ab  Dis  plura  feret ").  Then  come  pity  and 
long-suffering,  which  have  to  deal  with  the  sin,  and  not  merely 
with  the  sorrow,  of  those  around  us.  Then  the  three  Trial 
virtues,  through  which  one  has  to  struggle  forward  up  to  the 
power  of  Love,  the  twelfth. 

All  these  relate  only  to  the  duties  and  relations  of  the  life 
that  is  now. 

But  Love  is  stronger  than  Death ;  and  through  her,  we  have, 
first,  Hope  of  life  to  come ;  then,  surety  of  it ;  living  by  this 
surety,  (the  Just  shall  live  by  faith,)  Righteousness,  and 
Strength  to  the  end.  Who  bears  on  her  scroll,  '  The  Lord 
shall  break  the  teeth  of  the  Lions." 

46.  An  undeveloped  and  simial  system  of  human  life— you 
think  it — cockney  friend  ! 

Such  as  it  was,  the  Venetians  made  shift  to  brave  the  wai 


THE  REQUIEM. 


87 


of  this  world  with  it,  as  well  as  ever  you  are  like  to  do  ;  and 
they  had,  besides,  the  joy  of  looking  to  the  peace  of  another. 
For,  you  see,  above  these  narrow  windows,  stand  the  Apostles, 
and  the  two  angels  that  stood  by  them  on  the  Mount  of  the 
Ascension  ;  and  between  these  the  Virgin  ;  and  with  her,  and 
with  the  twelve,  you  are  to  hear  the  angel's  word, "  Why  stand 
ye  at  gaze  ?  as  He  departs,  so  shall  He  come,  to  give  the  Laws 
that  ought  to  be." 

Debita  jura, 

a  form  of  "  debit "  little  referred  to  in  modern  ledgers,  but  by 
the  Venetian  acknowledged  for  all  devoirs  of  commerce  and 
of  war ;  writing,  by  his  church,  of  the  Bialto's  business,  (the 
first  words,  these,  mind  you,  that  Venice  ever  speaks  aloud,) 
"Around  this  Temple,  let  the  Merchant's  law  be  just,  his 
weights  true,  and  his  covenants  faithful."  And  writing  thus, 
in  lovelier  letters,  above  the  place  of  St.  Mark's  Rest, — 

"  Brave  be  the  living,  who  live  unto  the  Lord  ; 
For  Blessed  are  the  dead,  that  die  in  Him." 

Note. — The  mosaics  described  in  this  number  of  St.  Mark's  Rest  be- 
ing now  liable  at  any  moment  to  destruction — from  causes  already  enough 
specified,  I  have  undertaken,  at  the  instance  of  Mr.  Edward  Burne 
Jones,  and  with  promise  of  that  artist's  helpful  superintendence,  at  once 
to  obtain  some  permanent  record  of  them,  the  best  that  may  be  at  present 
possible :  and  to  that  end  I  have  already  dispatched  to  Venice  an  accom- 
plished young  draughtsman,  who  is  content  to  devote  himself,  as  old 
painters  did,  to  the  work  before  him  for  the  sake  oi  that,  and  his  own 
honour,  at  journeyman's  wages.  The  three  of  us,  Mr.  Burne  Jones,  and 
he,  and  I,  are  alike  minded  to  set  our  hands  and  souls  hard  at  this  thing: 
but  we  can't,  unless  the  public  will  a  little  help  us.  I  have  given  away 
already  all  I  have  to  spare,  and  can't  carry  on  this  work  at  my  own  cost ; 
and  if  Mr.  Burne  Jones  gives  his  time  and  care  gratis,  and  without  stint, 
as  I  know  he  will,  it  is  all  he  should  be  asked  for.  Therefore,  the  public 
must  give  me  enough  to  maintain  my  draughtsman  at  his  task:  what 
mode  of  publication  for  the  drawings  may  be  then  possible,  is  for  after- 
consideration.  I  ask  for  subscriptions  at  present  to  obtain  the  copies 
only.  The  reader  is  requested  to  refer  also  to  the  final  note  appended 
to  the  new  edition  of  the  "-Stones  of  Venice,"  and  to  send  what  sub- 
scription he  may  please  to  my  publisher,  Mr.  G.  Allen,  Sunnyside,  Orp- 
ington, Kent. 


FIRST  SUPPLEMENT. 

THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLA  YES. 

BEING  A  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  BY 

VICTOR  CARPACCIO 

IN  VENICE. 


PEE  FACE. 


The  following  (too  imperfect)  account  of  the  pictures  by 
Carpaccio  in  the  chapel  of  San  Giorgio  de'  Schiavoni,  is 
properly  a  supplement  to  the  part  of  "  St.  Mark's  Rest"  in 
which  I  propose  to  examine  the  religious  mind  of  Venice  in 
the  fifteenth  century  ;  but  I  publish  these  notes  prematurely 
that  they  may  the  sooner  become  helpful,  according  to  their 
power,  to  the  English  traveller. 

The  second  supplement,  which  is  already  in  the  press,  will 
contain  the  analysis  by  my  fellow- worker,  Mr.  James  Reddie 
Anderson,  of  the  mythological  purport  of  the  pictures  here 
described.  I  separate  Mr.  Anderson's  work  thus  distinctly 
from  my  own,  that  he  may  have  the  entire  credit  of  it ;  but 
the  reader  will  soon  perceive  that  it  is  altogether  necessary, 
both  for  the  completion  and  the  proof  of  my  tentative  state- 
ments ;  and  that  without  the  certificate  of  his  scholarly  in- 
vestigation, it  would  have  been  lost  time  to  prolong  the  account 
of  my  own  conjectures  or  impressions. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


Counting  the  canals  which,  entering  the  city  from  the  open 
lagoon,  must  be  crossed  as  you  walk  from  the  Piazzetta  to- 
wards the  Public  Gardens,  the  fourth,  called  the  "Kio  della 
Pieta"  from  the  unfinished  church  of  the  Pieta,  facing  the 
quay  before  you  reach  it,  will  presently,  if  you  go  down  it  in 
gondola,  and  pass  the  Campo  di  S.  Antonin,  permit  your 
landing  at  some  steps  on  the  right,  in  front  of  a  little  chapel 
of  indescribable  architecture,  chiefly  made  up  of  foolish  spiral 
flourishes,  which  yet,  by  their  careful  execution  and  shallow 
mouldings,  are  seen  to  belong  to  a  time  of  refined  temper. 
Over  its  door  are  two  bas-reliefs.  That  of  St.  Catherine  lean- 
ing on  her  wheel  seems  to  me  anterior  in  date  to  the  other, 
and  is  very  lovely  :  the  second  is  contemporary  with  the 
cinque-cento  building,  and  fine  also  ;  but  notable  chiefly  for 
the  conception  of  the  dragon  as  a  creature  formidable  rather 
by  its  gluttony  than  its  malice,  and  degraded  beneath  the 
level  of  all  other  spirits  of  prey ;  its  wings  having  wasted 
away  into  mere  paddles  or  flappers,  having  in  them  no  faculty 
or  memory  of  flight ;  its  throat  stretched  into  the  flaccidity  of 
a  sack,  its  tail  swollen  into  a  molluscous  encumbrance,  like  an 
enormous  worm  ;  and  the  human  head  beneath  its  paw  sym- 
bolizing therefore  the  subjection  of  the  human  nature  to  the 
most  brutal  desires. 

When  I  came  to  Venice  last  year,  it  was  with  resolute 
purpose  of  finding  out  everything  that  could  be  known  of  the 
circumstances  which  led  to  the  building,  and  determined  the 
style,  of  this  chapel — or  more  strictly,  sacred  hall,  of  the 
School  of  the  Schiavoni.  But  day  after  day  the  task  was 
delayed  by  some  more  pressing  subject  of  enquiry ;  and,  at 


94 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


this  moment— resolved  at  last  to  put  what  notes  I  have  on  the 
contents  of  it  at  once  together, — I  find  myself  reduced  to  copy, 
without  any  additional  illustration,  the  statement  of  Flaminio 
Corner.1 

"In  the  year  1451,  some  charitable  men  of  the  Illyrian  or 
Sclavonic  nation,  many  of  whom  were  sailors,  moved  by 
praiseworthy  compassion,  in  that  they  saw  many  of  their  fel- 
low-countrymen, though  deserving  well  of  the  republic,  perish 
miserably,  either  of  hard  life  or  hunger,  nor  have  enough  to 
pay  the  expenses  of  church  burial,  determined  to  establish  a 
charitable  brotherhood  under  the  invocation  of  the  holy 
martyrs  St.  George  and  St.  Trifon — brotherhood  whose  pledge 
was  to  succour  poor  sailors,  and  others  of  their  nation,  in 
their  grave  need,  whether  by  reason  of  sickness  or  old  age, 
and  to  conduct  their  bodies,  after  death,  religiously  to  burial. 
Which  design  was  approved  by  the  Council  of  Ten,  in  a 
decree  dated  19th  May,  1451 ;  after  which,  they  obtained  from 
the  pity  of  the  Prior  of  the  Monastery  of  St.  John  of  Jeru- 
salem, Lorenzo  Marcello,  the  convenience  of  a  hospice  in  the 
buildings  of  the  Priory,  with  rooms  such  as  were  needful  for 
their  meetings  ;  and  the  privilege  of  building  an  altar  in  the 
church,  under  the  title  of  St.  George  and  Trifon,  the  mar- 
tyrs ;  with  the  adjudgment  of  an  annual  rent  of  four  zecchins, 
two  loaves,  and  a  pound  of  wax,  to  be  offered  to  the  Priory  on 
the  feast  of  St.  George.  Such  were  the  beginnings  of  the 
brotherhood,  called  that  of  St.  George  of  the  Sclavonians. 

"  Towards  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  old  hospice 
being  ruinous,  the  fraternity  took  counsel  to  raise  from  the 
foundations  a  more  splendid  new  one,  under  the  title  of  the 
Martyr  St.  George,  which  was  brought  to  completion,  with  its 
facade  of  marble,  in  the  year  1501. 

The  hospice  granted  by  the  pity  of  the  Prior  of  St.  John 
cannot  have  been  very  magnificent,  if  this  little  chapel  be  in- 
deed much  more  splendid  ;  nor  do  I  yet  know  what  rank  the 
school  of  the  Sclavonians  held,  in  power  or  number,  among 
the  other  minor  fraternities  of  Venice.  The  relation  of  the 
national  character  of  the  Dalmatians  and  Illyrians,  not  only 
1  "Notizie  Storiche,"  Venice,  1758,  p,  107. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


95 


to  Venice,  but  to  Europe,  I  find  to  be  of  far  more  deep  and 
curious  interest  than  is  commonly  supposed  ;  and  in  the  case 
of  the  Venetians,  traceable  back  at  least  to  the  days  of  Her- ' 
odotus ;  for  the  festival  of  the  Brides  of  Venice,  and  its  inter- 
ruption by  the  Illyrian  pirates,  is  one  of  the  curious  proofs  of 
the  grounds  he  had  for  naming  the  Venetians  as  one  of  the 
tribes  of  the  Illyrians,  and  ascribing  to  them,  alone  among 
European  races,  the  same  practice  as  that  of  the  Babylonians 
with  respect  to  the  dowries  of  their  marriageable  girls. 

How  it  chanced  that  while  the  entire  Riva, — the  chief  quay 
in  Venice — was  named  from  the  Sclavonians,  they  were  yet 
obliged  to  build  their  school  on  this  narrow  canal,  and  prided 
themselves  on  the  magnificence  of  so  small  a  building,  I  have 
not  ascertained,  nor  who  the  builder  was  ; — his  style,  differing 
considerably  from  ail  the  Venetian  practice  of  the  same  date, 
by  its  refusal  at  once  of  purely  classic  forms,  and  of  elaborate 
ornament,  becoming  insipidly  grotesque,  and  chastely  barbar- 
ous, in  a  quite  unexampled  degree,  is  noticeable  enough, 
if  we  had  not  better  things  to  notice  within  the  unpre- 
tending doorway.  Entering,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  little 
room  about  the  size  of  the  commercial  parlour  in  an 
old-fashioned  English  inn;  perhaps  an  inch  or  two  higher 
in  the  ceiling,  which  is  of  good  horizontal  beams,  narrow 
and  many,  for  effect  of  richness  ;  painted  and  gilded,  also, 
now  tawdrily  enough,  but  always  in  some  such  patterns 
as  you  see.  At  the  end  of  the  low  room,  is  an  altar,  with 
doors  on  the  right  and  left  of  it  in  the  sides  of  the  room,  open- 
ing, the  one  into  the  sacristy,  the  other  to  the  stairs  leading 
to  the  upper  chapel.  All  the  rest  mere  flat  wall,  wainscoted 
two-thirds  up,  eight  feet  or  so,  leaving  a  third  of  the  height, 
say  four  feet,  claiming  some  kind  of  decent  decoration. 
Which  modest  demand  you  perceive  to  be  modestly  supplied, 
by  pictures,  fitting  that  measure  in  height,  and  running  long 
or  short,  as  suits  their  subjects  ;  ten  altogether,  (or  with  the 
altar-piece,  eleven,)  of  which  nine  are  worth  your  looking  at. 

Not  as  very  successfully  decorative  work,  I  admit.  A 
modern  Parisian  upholsterer,  or  clever  Kensington  student, 
would  have  done  for  you  a  far  surpassing  splendour  in  a  few 


96 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


hours :  all  that  we  can  say  here,  at  the  utmost,  is  that  the 
place  looks  comfortable  ;  and,  especially,  warm, — the  pictures 
having  the  effect,  you  will  feel  presently,  of  a  soft  evening 
sunshine  on  the  walls,  or  glow  from  embers  on  some  peaceful 
hearth,  cast  up  into  the  room  where  one  sits  waiting  for  dear 
friends,  in  twilight. 

In  a  little  while,  if  you  still  look  with  general  glance-,  yet 
patiently,  this  warmth  will  resolve  itself  into  a  kind  of  chequer- 
ing, as  of  an  Eastern  carpet,  or  old-fashioned  English  sampler, 
of  more  than  usually  broken  and  sudden  variegation  ;  nay, 
suggestive  here  and  there  of  a  wayward  patchwork,  verging 
into  grotesqueness,  or  even,  with  some  touch  of  fantasy  in 
masque,  into  harlequinade, — like  a  tapestry  for  a  Christmas 
night  in  a  home  a  thousand  years  old,  to  adorn  a  carol  of  hon- 
oured knights  with  honouring  queens. 

Thus  far  sentient  of  the  piece,  for  all  is  indeed  here  but 
one, — go  forward  a  little,  please,  to  the  second  picture  on 
the  left,  wherein,  central,  is  our  now  accustomed  friend,  St. 
George  :  stiff  and  grotesque,  even  to  humorousness,  you  will 
most  likely  think  him,  with  his  dragon  in  a  singularly  de- 
pressed and,  as  it  were,  water-logged,  state.  Never  mind  him, 
or  the  dragon,  just  now  ;  but  take  a  good  opera-glass,  and 
look  therewith  steadily  and  long  at  the  heads  of  the  two 
princely  riders  on  the  left — the  Saracen  king  and  his  daugh- 
ter— he  in  high  white  turban,  she  beyond  him  in  the  crimson 
cap,  high,  like  a  castle  tower. 

Look  well  and  long.  For  truly, — and  with  hard-earned  and 
secure  knowledge  of  such  matters,  I  tell  you,  through  all  this 
round  world  of  ours,  searching  what  the  best  life  of  it  has 
done  of  brightest  in  all  its  times  and  years, — you  shall  not  find 
another  piece  quite  the  like  of  that  little  piece  of  work,  for  su- 
preme, serene,  unassuming,  unfaltering  sweetness  of  painter's 
perfect  art.  Over  every  other  precious  thing,  of  such  things 
known  to  me,  it  rises,  in  the  compass  of  its  simplicity ;  in  be- 
ing able  to  gather  the  perfections  of  the  joy  of  extreme  child- 
hood, and  the  joy  of  a  hermit's  age,  with  the  strength  and 
sunshine  of  mid-life,  all  in  one. 

Which  is  indeed  more  or  less  true  of  all  Carpaccio's  work 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


97 


and  mind  ;  but  in  this  piece  you  have  it  set  in  close  jewellery, 
radiant,  inestimable. 

Extreme  joy  of  childhood,  I  say.  No  little  lady  in  her  first 
red  shoes, — no  soldier's  baby  seeing  himself  in  the  glass  be- 
neath his  father's  helmet,  is  happier  in  laugh  than  Carpaccio, 
as  he  heaps  and  heaps  his  Sultan's  snowy  crest,  and  crowns 
his  pretty  lady  with  her  ruby  tower.  No  desert  hermit  is 
more  temperate  ;  no  ambassador  on  perilous  policy  more  sub- 
tle ;  no  preacher  of  first  Christian  gospel  to  a  primitive  race 
more  earnest  or  tender.  The  wonderfullest  of  Venetian  Har- 
lequins this, — variegated,  like  Geryon,  to  the  innermost  mind 
of  him — to  the  lightest  gleam  of  his  pencil:  "Con  piu  color, 
sommesse  e  sopraposte  ;  non  fur  mai  drappi  Tartari  ne  Tur- 
chi ;  "  and  all  for  good. 

Of  course  you  will  not  believe  me  at  first, — nor  indeed,  till 
you  have  unwoven  many  a  fibre  of  his  silk  and  gold.  I  had 
no  idea  of  the  make  of  it  myself,  till  this  last  year,  when  I  hap- 
pily had  beguiled  to  Venice  one  of  my  best  young  Oxford 
men,  eager  as  myself  to  understand  this  historic  tapestry,  and 
finer  fingered  than  I,  who  once  getting  hold  of  the  fringes  of 
it,  has  followed  them  thread  by  thread  through  all  the  gleam- 
ing damask,  and  read  it  clear ;  whose  account  of  the  real  mean- 
ing of  all  these  pictures  you  shall  have  presently  in  full. 

But  first,  we  will  go  round  the  room  to  know  what  is  here 
to  read,  and  take  inventory  of  our  treasures ;  and  I  will  tell 
you  only  the  little  I  made  out  myself,  which  is  all  that,  with- 
out more  hard  work  than  can  be  got  through  to-day,  you  are 
likely  either  to  see  in  them,  or  believe  of  them. 

First,  on  the  left,  then,  St.  George  and  the  Dragon — com- 
batant both,  to  the  best  of  their  powers  ;  perfect  each  in  their 
natures  of  dragon  and  knight.  No  dragon  that  I  know  of, 
pictured  among  mortal  worms  ;  no  knight  I  know  of,  pictured 
in  immortal  chivalry,  so  perfect,  each  in  his  kind,  as  these 
two.  What  else  is  visible  on  the  battleground,  of  living 
creature, — frog,  newt,  or  viper, — no  less  admirable  in  their 
kind.  The  small  black  viper,  central,  I  have  painted  carefully 
for  the  schools  of  Oxford  as  a  Natural  History  study,  such  as 
Oxford  schools  prefer.    St.  George,  for  my  own  satisfaction, 


98 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLA  VE8. 


also  as  well  as  I  could,  in  the  year  1872  ;  and  hope  to  get 
him  some  day  better  done,  for  an  example  to  Sheffield  in  iron- 
armour,  and  several  other  things. 

Picture  second,  the  one  I  first  took  you  to  see,  is  of  the 
Dragon  led  into  the  market-place  of  the  Sultan's  capital- 
submissive  :  the  piece  of  St.  George's  spear,  which  has  gone 
through  the  back  of  his  head,  being  used  as  a  bridle  :  but 
the  creature  indeed  now  little  needing  one,  being  otherwise 
subdued  enough ;  an  entirely  collapsed  and  confounded  dragon, 
all  his  bones  dissolved  away  ;  prince  and  people  gazing  as  he 
returns  to  his  dust. 

Picture  third,  on  the  left  side  of  the  altar.1 

The  Sultan  and  his  daughter  are  baptized  by  St.  George. 

Triumphant  festival  of  baptism,  as  at  the  new  birthday  of 
two  kingly  spirits.  Trumpets  and  shawms  high  in  resounding 
transport ;  yet  something  of  comic  no  less  than  rapturous  in 
the  piece  ;  a  beautiful  scarlet — "  parrot  "  (must  we  call  him?) 
conspicuously  mumbling  at  a  violet  flower  under  the  steps ; 
him  also — finding  him  the  scarletest  and  mumblingest  parrot 
I  had  ever  seen — I  tried  to  paint  in  1872  for  the  Natural  His- 
tory Schools  of  Oxford — perhaps  a  new  species,  or  extinct 
old  one,  to  immortalize  Carpaccio's  name  and  mine.  When 
all  the  imaginative  arts  shall  be  known  no  more,  perhaps,  in 
Darwinian  Museum,  this  scarlet  "  Epops  Carpaccii"  may  pre- 
serve our  fame. 

But  the  quaintest  thing  of  all  is  St.  George's  own  attitude 
in  baptizing.  He  has  taken  a  good  platterful  of  water  to 
pour  on  the  Sultan's  head.  The  font  of  inlaid  bronze  below 
is  quite  flat,  and  the  splash  is  likely  to  be  spreading.  St. 
George — carefullest  of  saints,  it  seems,  in  the  smallest  mat- 
ters— is  holding  his  mantle  back  well  out  of  the  way.  I  sup- 
pose, really  and  truly,  the  instinctive  action  would  have  been 
this,  pouring  at  the  same  time  so  that  the  splash  might  be 
towards  himself,  and  not  over  the  Sultan. 

With  its  head  close  to  St.  George's  foot,  you  see  a  sharp* 
eared  white  dog,  with  a  red  collar  round  his  neck.    Not  a 

1  The  intermediate  oblong  on  the  lateral  wall  is  not  Carpaccio's,  and 
is  good  for  nothing. 


THE  SHRINK  OF  THE  SLA  VES. 


99 


greyhound,  by  any  means  ;  but  an  awkward  animal :  stupid- 
looking,  and  not  much  like  a  saint's  dog.  Nor  is  it  in  the 
least  interested  in  the  baptism,  which  a  saint's  dog  would  cer- 
tainly have  been.  The  mumbling  parrot,  and  he — what  can 
they  have  to  do  with  the  proceedings  ?  A  very  comic  pict- 
ure ! 

But  this  next, — for  a  piece  of  sacred  art,  what  can  we  say 
of  it? 

St.  Tryphonius  and  the  Basilisk — was  ever  so  simple  a  saint, 
ever  so  absurd  a  beast  ?  as  if  the  absurdity  of  all  heraldic 
beasts  that  ever  were,  had  been  hatched  into  one  perfect  ab- 
surdity— prancing  there  on  the  steps  of  the  throne,  self-satis- 
fied ; — this  the  beast  whose  glance  is  mortal !  And  little  St. 
Tryphonius,  with  nothing  remarkable  about  him  more  than  is 
in  every  good  little  boy,  for  all  I  can  see. 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  I  don't  happen  to  know  anything 
about  St.  Tryphonius,  wThom  I  mix  up  a  little  with  Tropho- 
nius,  and  his  cave  ;  also  I  am  not  very  clear  about  the  differ- 
ence between  basilisks  and  cockatrices  ;  and  on  the  whole  find 
myself  reduced,  in  this  picture,  to  admiring  the  carpets  with 
the  crosses  on  them  hung  out  of  the  window,  which,  if  you 
will  examine  with  opera-glass,  you  will  be  convinced,  I  think, 
that  nobody  can  do  the  like  of  them  by  rules,  at  Kensington  ; 
and  that  if  you  really  care  to  have  carpets  as  good  as  they  can 
be,  you  must  get  somebody  to  design  them  who  can  draw 
saints  and  basilisks  too. 

Note,  also,  the  group  under  the  loggia  which  the  stair-case 
leads  up  to,  high  on  the  left.  It  is  a  picture  in  itself ;  far 
more  lovely  as  a  composition  than  the  finest  Titian  or  Vero- 
nese, simple  and  pleasant  this  as  the  summer  air,  and  lucent 
as  morning  cloud. 

On  the  other  side  also  there  are  wonderful  things,  onh 
there's  a  black  figure  there  that  frightens  me  ;  I  can't  make 
it  out  at  all  ;  and  would  rather  go  on  to  the  next  picture, 
please. 

Stay— -I  forgot  the  arabesque  on  the  steps,  with  the  living 
plants  taking  part  in  the  ornament,  like  voices  chanting  here 
and  there  a  note,  as  some  pretty  tune  follows  its  melodious 


100 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


way,  on  constant  instruments.  Nature  and  art  at  play  with 
each  other — graceful  and  gay  alike,  yet  all  the  while  conscious 
that  they  are  at  play  round  the  steps  of  a  throne,  and  under 
the  paws  of  a  basilisk 

The  fifth  picture  is  in  the  darkest  recess  of  all  the  room  ; 
and  of  darkest  theme, — the  Agony  in  the  garden.  I  have 
never  seen  it  rightly,  nor  need  you  pause  at  it,  unless  to  note 
the  extreme  naturalness  of  the  action  in  the  sleeping  figures 
— their  dresses  drawn  tight  under  them  as  they  have  turned, 
restlessly.    But  the  principal  figure  is  hopelessly  invisible. 

The  sixth  picture  is  of  the  calling  of  Matthew  ;  visible, 
this,  in  a  bright  day,  and  worth  waiting  for  one,  to  see  it  in, 
through  any  stress  of  weather. 

For,  indeed,  the  Gospel  which  the  publican  wrote  for  us, 
with  its  perfect  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  mostly  more  har- 
monious and  gentle  fulness,  in  places  where  St.  Luke  is  formal, 
St.  John  mysterious,  and  St.  Mark  brief, — this  Gospel,  ac- 
cording to  St.  Matthew,  I  should  think,  if  we  had  to  choose 
one  out  of  all  the  books  in  the  Bible  for  a  prison  or  desert 
friend,  would  be  the  one  we  should  keep. 

And  we  do  not  enough  think  how  much  that  leaving  the 
receipt  of  custom  meant,  as  a  sign  of  the  man's  nature,  who 
was  to  leave  us  such  a  notable  piece  of  literature. 

Yet  observe,  Carpaccio  does  not  mean  to  express  the  fact, 
or  anything  like  the  fact,  of  the  literal  calling  of  Matthew. 
"What  the  actual  character  of  the  publicans  of  Jerusalem  was 
at  that  time,  in  its  general  aspect,  its  admitted  degradation, 
and  yet  power  of  believing,  with  the  harlot,  what  the  masters 
and  the  mothers  in  Israel  could  not  believe,  it  is  not  his  purpose 
to  teach  you.  This  call  from  receipt  of  custom,  he  takes  for 
the  symbol  of  the  universal  call  to  leave  all  that  we  have,  and 
are  doing.  "  "Whosoever  forsaketh  not  all  that  he  hath,  can- 
not be  my  disciple."  For  the  other  calls  were  easily  obeyed 
in  comparison  of  this.  To  leave  one's  often  empty  nets  and 
nightly  toil  on  sea,  and  become  fishers  of  men,  probably  you 
might  find  pescatori  enough  on  the  Biva  there,  within  a  hun- 
dred paces  of  you,  who  would  take  the  chance  at  once,  if  any 
gentle  person  offered  it  them.    James  and  Jude — Christ's* 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


101 


cousins — no  thanks  to  them  for  following  Him ;  their  own 
home  conceivably  no  richer  than  His.  Thomas  and  Philip,  I 
suppose,  somewhat  thoughtful  persons  on  spiritual  matters, 
questioning  of  them  long  since  ;  going  out  to  hear  St.  John 
preach,  and  to  see  whom  he  had  seen.  But  this  man,  busy 
in  the  place  of  business — engaged  in  the  interests  of  foreign 
governments — thinking  no  more  of  an  Israelite  Messiah  than 
Mr.  Goschen,  but  only  of  Egyptian  finance,  and  the  like — 
suddenly  the  Messiah,  passing  by,  says  "  Follow  me  ! "  and  he 
rises  up,  gives  Him  his  hand,  "  Yea  !  to  the  death  ;  "  and  ab- 
sconds from  his  desk  in  that  electric  manner  on  the  instant, 
leaving  his  cash-box  unlocked,  and  his  books  for  whoso  list  to 
balance  ! — a  very  remarkable  kind  of  person  indeed,  it  seems 
to  me. 

Carpaccio  takes  him,  as  I  said,  for  a  type  of  such  sacrifice 
at  its  best.  Everything  (observe  in  passing)  is  here  given  you 
of  the  best.  Dragon  deadliest — knight  purest — parrot  scar- 
letest — basilisk  absurdest — publican  publicanest ; — a  perfect 
type  of  the  life  spent  in  taxing  one's  neighbour,  exacting  duties, 
per-centages,  profits  in  general,  in  a  due  and  virtuous  man- 
ner. 

For  do  not  think  Christ  would  have  called  a  bad  or  corrupt 
publican — much  less  that  a  bad  or  corrupt  publican  would 
have  obeyed  the  call.  Your  modern  English  evangelical  doc- 
trine that  Christ  has  a  special  liking  for  the  souls  of  rascals  is 
the  absurdest  basilisk  of  a  doctrine  that  ever  pranced  on  judg- 
ment steps.  That  which  is  lost  He  comes  to  save, — yes  ;  but 
not  that  which  is  defiantly  going  the  way  He  has  forbidden. 
He  showed  you  plainly  enough  what  kind  of  publican  He 
would  call,  having  chosen  two,  both  of  the  best :  "  Behold, 
Lord,  if  I  have  taken  anything  from  any  man,  I  restore  it 
fourfold  ! " — a  beautiful  manner  of  trade.  Carpaccio  knows 
well  that  there  were  no  defalcations  from  Levi's  chest — no  op- 
pressions in  his  tax-gathering.  This  whom  he  has  painted  is 
a  true  merchant  of  Venice,  uprightest  and  gentlest  of  the 
merchant  race  ;  yet  with  a  glorious  pride  in  him.  What  mer- 
chant but  one  of  Venice  would  have  ventured  to  take  Christ's 
hand,  as  his  Mend's — as  one  man  takes  another's  ?    Not  re- 


102 


THE  SERINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


pentant,  he,  of  anything  he  has  done  ;  not  crushed  or  terrified 
by  Christ's  call  ;  but  rejoicing  in  it,  as  meaning  Christ's  praise 
and  love.  "  Come  up  higher  then,  for  there  are  nobler  treas- 
ures  than  these  to  count,  and  a  nobler  King  than  this  to  render 
account  to.  Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few  things  ;  enter 
thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord." 

A  lovely  picture,  in  every  sense  and  power  of  painting  ; 
natural,  and  graceful,  and  quiet,  and  pathetic  ; — divinely  re- 
ligious, yet  as  decorative  and  dainty  as  a  bank  of  violets  in 
spring. 

But  the  next  picture  !  How  was  ever  such  a  thing  allowed 
to  be  put  in  a  church  ?  Nothing  surely  could  be  more  per- 
fect in  comic  art.  St.  Jerome,  forsooth,  introducing  his  nov- 
ice lion  to  monastic  life,  with  the  resulting  effect  on  the  vul- 
gar monastic  mind. 

Do  not  imagine  for  an  instant  that  Carpaccio  does  not  see 
the  jest  in  all  this,  as  well  as  you  do, — perhaps  even  a  little 
better.  "Ask  for  him  to-morrow,  indeed,  and  you  shall  find 
him  a  grave  man  ; "  but,  to-day,  Mercutio  himself  is  not  more 
fanciful,  nor  Shakespeare  himself  more  gay  in  his  fancy  of  "  the 
gentle  beast  and  of  a  good  conscience,"  than  here  the  painter 
as  he  drew  his  delicately  smiling  lion  with  his  head  on  one 
side  like  a  Perugino's  saint,  and  his  left  paw  raised,  partly  to 
show  the  thorn  wound,  partly  in  deprecation, — 

"  For  if  I  should,  as  lion,  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  of  my  life." 

The  flying  monks  are  scarcely  at  first  intelligible  but  as  white 
and  blue  oblique  masses  ;  and  there  was  much  debate  between 
Mr.  Murray  and  me,  as  he  sketched  the  picture  for  the  Shef 
field  Museum,  whether  the  actions  of  flight  were  indeed  well 
given  or  not ;  he  maintaining  that  the  monks  were  really  run- 
ning like  Olympic  archers,  and  that  the  fine  drawing  was  only 
lost  under  the  quartering  of  the  dresses  ; — I  on  the  contrary 
believe  that  Carpaccio  had  failed,  having  no  gift  for  represent- 
ing swift  motion.  We  are  probably  both  right  ;  I  doubt  not 
that  the  running  action,  if  Mr.  Murray  says  so,  is  rightly 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


103 


drawn  ;  but  at  this  time,  every  Venetian  painter  had  been 
trained  to  represent  only  slow  and  dignified  motion,  and  not 
till  fifty  years  later,  under  classic  influence,  came  the  floating 
and  rushing  force  of  Veronese  and  Tintoret. 

And  I  am  confirmed  in  this  impression  by  the  figure  of  the 
stag  in  the  distance,  which  does  not  run  freely,  and  by  the 
imperfect  gallop  of  St.  George's  horse  in  the  first  subject. 

But  there  are  many  deeper  questions  respecting  this  St. 
Jerome  subject  than  those  of  artistic  skill.  The  picture  is  a 
jest  indeed  ;  but  is  it  a  jest  only  ?  Is  the  tradition  itself  a 
jest?  or  only  by  our  own  fault,  and  perhaps  Carpaccio's,  do 
we  make  it  so  ? 

In  the  first  place,  then,  you  will  please  to  remember,  as  I 
have  often  told  you,  Carpaccio  is  not  answerable  for  himself 
in  this  matter.  He  begins  to  think  of  his  subject,  intending, 
doubtless,  to  execute  it  quite  seriously.  But  his  mind  no 
sooner  fastens  on  it  than  the  vision  of  it  comes  to  him  as  a 
jest,  and  he  is  forced  to  paint  ifc.  Forced  by  the  fates,— 
dealing  with  the  fate  of  Venice  and  Christendom.  We  must 
ask  of  Atropos,  not  of  Carpaccio,  why  this  picture  makes  us 
laugh  ;  and  why  the  tradition  it  records  has  become  to  us  a 
dream  and  a  scorn.  No  day  of  my  life  passes  now  to  its  sun- 
set, without  leaving  me  more  doubtful  of  all  our  cherished 
contempts,  and  more  earnest  to  discover  what  root  there 
was  for  the  stories  of  good  men,  which  are  now  the  mockers 
treasure. 

And  I  want  to  read  a  good  "  Life  of  St.  Jerome."  And  if  I 
go  to  Mr.  Ongaria's  I  shall  find,  I  suppose,  the  autobiography 
of  George  Sand,  and  the  life  of — Mr.  Sterling,  perhaps  ;  and 
Mr.  Werner,  written  by  my  own  master,  and  which  indeed 
I've  read,  but  forget  now  who  either  Mr.  Sterling  or  Mr.  Wer- 
ner were  ;  and  perhaps,  in  religious  literature,  the  life  of  Mr. 
Wilberforce  and  of  Mrs.  Fry  ;  but  not  the  smallest  scrap  of 
information  about  St.  Jerome.  To  whom,  nevertheless,  all 
the  charity  of  George  Sand,  and  all  the  ingenuity  of  Mr.  Ster- 
ling, and  all  the  benevolence  of  Mr.  Wilberforce,  and  a  great 
quantity,  if  wre  knew  it,  of  the  daily  comfort  and  peace  of  our 
own  little  lives  every  day,  are  verily  owing  ;  as  to  a  lovely  old 


104:  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


pair  of  spiritual  spectacles,  without  whom  we  never  had  read 
a  word  of  the  "  Protestant  Bible."  Ib  is  of  no  use,  however, 
to  begin  a  life  of  St.  Jerome  now — and  of  little  use  to  look  at 
these  pictures  without  a  life  of  St.  Jerome  ;  but  only  thus 
much  you  should  be  clear  in  knowing  about  him,  as  not  in 
the  least  doubtful  or  mythical,  but  wholly  true,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  facts  quite  limitlessly  important  to  all  modern 
Europe — namely,  that  he  was  born  of  good,  or  at  least  rich 
family,  in  Dalmatia,  virtually  midway  between  the  east  and 
the  west ;  that  he  made  the  great  Eastern  book,  the  Bible, 
legible  in  the  west ;  that  he  was  the  first  great  teacher  of  the 
nobleness  of  ascetic  scholarship  and  courtesy,  as  opposed  to 
ascetic  savageness  : — the  founder,  properly,  of  the  ordered 
cell  and  tended  garden,  where  before  was  but  the  desert  and 
the  wild  wood  ;  and  that  he  died  in  the  monastery  he  had 
founded  at  Bethlehem. 

It  is  this  union  of  gentleness  and  refinement  with  noble 
continence, — this  love  and  imagination  illuminating  the 
mountain  cave  into  a  frescoed  cloister,  and  winning  its  savage 
beasts  into  domestic  friends,  which  Carpaccio  has  been 
ordered  to  paint  for  you  ;  which,  witli  ceaseless  exquisiteness 
of  fancy,  he  fills  these  three  canvases  with  the  incidents  of, — 
meaning,  as  I  believe,  the  story  of  all  monastic  life,  and 
death,  and  spiritual  life  forevermore  :  the  power  of  this  great 
and  wise  and  kind  spirit,  ruling  in  the  perpetual  future  over 
all  household  scholarship  ;  and  the  help  rendered  by  the  com- 
panion souls  of  the  lower  creatures  to  the  highest  intellect 
and  virtue  of  man. 

And  if  with  the  last  picture  of  St.  Jerome  in  his  study, — his 
happy  white  dog  watching  his  face — you  will  mentally  com- 
pare a  hunting  piece  by  Rubens,  or  Snyders,  with  the  torn 
dogs  rolled  along  the  ground  in  their  blood, — you  may  per- 
haps begin  to  feel  that  there  is  something  more  serious  in 
this  kaleidoscope  of  St.  George's  Chapel  than  you  at  first  be- 
lieved— which  if  you  now  care  to  follow  out  with  me,  let  us 
think  over  this  ludicrous  subject  more  quietly. 

What  account  have  we  here  given,  voluntarily  or  involun- 
tarily, of  monastic  life,  by  a  man  of  the  keenest  perception, 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLA  YES. 


105 


living  in  the  midst  of  it?  That  all  the  monks  who  have 
caught  sight  of  the  lion  should  be  terrified  out  of  their  wits — 
what  a  curious  witness  to  the  timidity  of  Monasticism  !  Here 
are  people  professing  to  prefer  Heaven  to  earth — preparing 
themselves  for  the  change  as  the  reward  of  all  their  present 
self-denial.  And  this  is  the  way  they  receive  the  first  chance 
of  it  that  offers  ! 

Evidently  Carpaccio's  impression  of  monks  must  be,  not 
that  they  were  more  brave  or  good  than  other  men  ;  but  that 
they  liked  books,  and  gardens,  and  peace,  and  were  afraid  of 
death — therefore,  retiring  from  the  warrior's  danger  of  chiv- 
alry somewhat  selfishly  and  meanly.  He  clearly  takes  the 
knight's  view  of  them.  What  he  may  afterwards  tell  us  of 
good  concerning  them,  will  not  be  from  a  witness  prejudiced 
in  their  favour.     Some  good  he  tells  us,  however,  even  here. 

The  pleasant  order  in  wildness  of  the  trees  ;  the  buildings 
for  agricultural  and  religious  use,  set  down  as  if  in  an  Amer- 
ican clearing,  here  and  there,  as  the  ground  was  got  ready 
for  them  ;  the  perfect  grace  of  cheerful,  pure,  illuminating 
art,  filling  every  little  cornice-cusp  of  the  chapel  with  its  jewel- 
picture  of  a  saint,1 — last,  and  chiefly,  the  perfect  kindness  to 
and  fondness  for,  all  sorts  of  animals.  Cannot  you  better  con- 
ceive, as  you  gaze  upon  the  happy  scene,  what  manner  of  men 
they  were  who  first  secured  from  noise  of  war  the  sweet  nooks 
of  meadow  beside  your  own  mountain  streams  at  Bolton,  and 
Fountains,  Furness  and  Tintern  ?  But  of  the  saint  himself 
Carpaccio  has  all  good  to  tell  you.  Common  monks  were,  at 
least,  harmless  creatures  ;  but  here  is  a  strong  and  beneficent 
one.  "  Calm,  before  the  Lion  !  "  say  C.  C.  with  their  usual 
perspicacity,  as  if  the  story  were  that  the  saint  alone  had  cour- 
age to  confront  the  raging  beast — a  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den  ! 
They  might  as  well  say  of  Carpaccio's  Venetian  beauty  that 
she  is  "calm  before  the  lapclog."  The  saint  is  leading  in  his 
new  pet,  as  he  would  a  lamb,  and  vainly  expostulating  with 
his  brethren  for  being  ridiculous,  The  grass  on  which  they 
have  dropped  their  books  is  beset  wTith  flowers ;  there  is  no 

1  See  the  piece  of  distant  monastery  in  the  lion  picture,  with  its  frag* 
ments  of  fresco  on  wall,  its  ivy-covered  door,  and  illuminated  cornice. 


106 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


sign  of  trouble  or  asceticism  on  the  old  man's  face,  he  is  evi- 
dently altogether  happy,  his  life  being  complete,  and  the  en- 
tire scene  one  of  the  ideal  simplicity  and  security  of  heavenly 
wisdom  :  "  Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her 
paths  are  peace." 

And  now  pass  to  the  second  picture.  At  first  you  will  per- 
haps see  principally  its  weak  monks — looking  more  foolish  in 
their  sorrow  than  ever  they  did  in  their  fear.  Portraits  these, 
evidently,  every  soul  of  them — chiefly  the  one  in  spectacles, 
reading  the  funeral  service  so  perfunctorily, — types,  through- 
out, of  the  supreme  commonplace ;  alike  in  action'  and  expres- 
sion, except  those  quiet  ones  in  purple  on  the  right,  and  the 
grand  old  man  on  crutches,  come  to  see  this  sight. 

But  St.  Jerome  himself  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  eager 
heart  of  him  quiet,  to  such  uttermost  quietness,— the  body 
lying — look — absolutely  flat  like  clay,  as  if  it  had  been  beat 
down,  and  clung,  clogged,  all  along  to  the  marble.  Earth  to 
earth  indeed.  Level  clay  and  inlaid  rock  now  all  one — and 
the  noble  head  senseless  as  a  stone,  with  a  stone  for  its  pil- 
low. 

There  they  gather  and  kneel  about  it — wondering,  I  think, 
more  than  pitying.  To  see  what  was  yesterday  the  great  Life 
in  the  midst  of  them,  laid  thus !  But.  so  far  as  they  do  not 
wonder,  they  pity  only,  and  grieve.  There  is  no  looking  for 
his  soul  in  the  clouds, — no  worship  of  relics  here,  implied  even 
in  the  kneeling  figures.  All  look  down,  woefully,  wistfully,  as 
into  a  grave.  "And  so  Death  passed  upon  all  men,  for  that 
all  have  sinned. " 

This  is  Carpaccio's  message  to  us.  And  lest  you  should  not 
read  it,  and  carelessly  think  that  he  meant  only  the  usual  com- 
monplace of  the  sacredness  and  blessedness  of  the  death  of  the 
righteous, — look  into  the  narrow  shadow  in  the  corner  of  the 
house  at  the  left  hand  side,  where,  on  the  strange  forked  and 
leafless  tree  that  occupies  it,  are  set  the  cross  and  little  vessel 
of  holy  water  beneath,  and  above,  the  skull,  which  are  always 
the  signs  of  St,  Jerome's  place  of  prayer  in  the  desert. 

The  lower  jaw  has  fallen  from  the  skull  into  the  vessel  qf  hdjf 
water. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


107 


It  is  but  a  little  sign, — but  you  will  soon  know  how  much 
this  painter  indicates  by  such  things,  and  that  here  he  means 
indeed  that  for  the  greatest,  as  the  meanest,  of  the  sons  of 
Adam,  death  is  still  the  sign  of  their  sin  ;  and  that  though  in 
Christ  all  shall  be  made  alive,  yet  also  in  Adam  all  die  ;  and 
this  return  to  their  earth  is  not  in  itself  the  coming  of  peace, 
but  the  infliction  of  shame. 

At  the  lower  edge  of  the  marble  pavement  is  one  of  Car- 
paccio's  lovely  signatures,  on  a  white  scroll,  held  in  its  mouth 
by  a  tiny  lizard. 

And  now  you  will  be  able  to  enter  into  the  joy  of  the  last 
picture,  the  life  of  St.  Jerome  in  Heaven. 

I  had  no  thought,  myself,  of  this  being  the  meaning  of  such 
closing  scene  ;  but  the  evidence  for  this  reading  of  it,  laid  be- 
fore me  by  my  fellow- worker,  Mr.  Anderson,  seems  to  me,  in 
the  concurrence  of  its  many  clauses,  irresistible  ;  and  this  at 
least  is  certain,  that  as  the  opposite  St.  George  represents  the 
perfect  Mastery  of  the  body,  in  contest  with  the  lusts  of  the 
Flesh,  this  of  St.  Jerome  represents  the  perfect  Mastery  of 
the  mind,  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  right  desires  of  the  Spirit : 
and  all  the  arts  of  man, — music  (a  long  passage  of  melody 
written  clear  on  one  of  the  fallen  scrolls),  painting  (in  the  il- 
luminated missal  and  golden  alcove),  and  sculpture  (in  all  the 
forms  of  furniture  and  the  bronze  work  of  scattered  orna- 
ments),— these — and  the  glad  fidelity  of  the  lower  animals, — 
all  subjected  in  pleasant  service  to  the  more  and  more  perfect 
reading  and  teaching  of  the  Word  of  God ; — read,  not  in 
written  pages  chiefly,  but  with  uplifted  eyes  by  the  light  of 
Heaven  itself,  entering  and  filling  the  mansions  of  Immortal- 
ity. 

This  interpretation  of  the  picture  is  made  still  more  prob- 
able, by  the  infinite  pains  which  Carpaccio  has  given  to  the 
working  of  it.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  find  more  beautiful 
and  right  painting  of  detail,  or  more  truthful  tones  of  atmos- 
phere and  shadow  affecting  interior  colours. 

Here  then  are  the  principal  heads  of  the  symbolic  evidence, 
abstracted  for  us  by  Mr.  Anderson  from  his  complete  account 
of  the  wThole  series,  now  in  preparation. 


108 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


1.  "  The  position  of  the  picture  seems  to  show  that  it  sums 
up  the  whole  matter.  The  St.  George  series  reads  from  left 
to  right.  So,  chronologically,  the  two  others  of  St.  Jerome ; 
but  this,  which  should  according  to  the  story  have  been  first, 
appears  after  the  death. 

2.  "The  figure  on  the  altar  is — most  unusually — our  Lord 
with  the  Kesurrection-banner.  The  shadow7  of  this  figure  falls 
on  the  wall  so  as  to  make  a  crest  for  the  mitre  on  the  altar — 
'  Helmet  of  Salvation.'  ....  The  mitre  (by  comparison  with 
St.  Ursula's  arrival  in  Rome  it  is  a  cardinal's  mitre),  censer, 
and  crosier,  are  laid  aside. 

3.  "  The  Communion  and  Baptismal  vessels  are  also  laid 
aside  under  this  altar,  not  of  the  dead  but  of  the  Risen  Lord. 
The  curtain  falling  from  the  altar  is  drawn  aside  that  we  may 
notice  this. 

4.  "In  the  mosaic-covered  recess  above  the  altar  there  is 
prominently  inlaid  the  figure  of  a  cherub  or  seraph  '  che  in 
Dio  piii  l'occhio  ha  fisso.' 

5.  "  Comparing  the  colours  of  the  winged  and  four-footed 
parts  of  the  '  animal  binato '  in  the  Purgatory,  it  is  I  believe 
important  to  notice  that  the  statue  of  our  Lord  is  gold,  the 
dress  of  St.  Jerome  red  and  white,  and  over  the  shoulders  a 
cape  of  the  brown  colour  of  earth. 

6.  "  While  candles  blaze  round  the  dead  Jerome  in  the  pre- 
vious picture,  the  candlesticks  on  the  altar  here  are  empty — 
*  they  need  no  candle.' 

7.  "The  two  round-topped  windows  in  the  line  behind  the 
square  one  through  which  St.  Jerome  gazes,  are  the  ancient 
tables  bearing  the  message  of  light,  delivered  'of  angels'  to 
the  faithful,  but  now  put  behind,  and  comparatively  dim  be- 
side the  glory  of  present  and  personal  vision.  Yet  the  light 
which  comes  even  through  the  square  window  streams  through 
bars  like  those  of  a  prison. 

u  1  Through  the  body's  prison  bars 

His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars,' 

Dante  Rosetti  writes  of  Dante  Allighieri ;  but  Carpaccio 
hangs  the  wheels  of  all  visible  heaven  inside  these  bars. 


THE  SHRTNE  OF  THE  SLAVES, 


109 


St.  Jerome's  'possessions'  are  in  a  farther  country.  These 
bars  are  another  way  of  putting  what  is  signified  by  the 
brown  cape. 

8.  "The  two  great  volumes  leaning  against  the  wall 
by  the  arm-chair  are  the  same  thing,  the  closed  testa- 
ments. 

9.  "  The  documents  hanging  in  the  little  chamber  behind 
and  lying  at  the  saint's  feet,  remarkable  for  their  hanging  seals, 
are  shown  by  these  seals  to  be  titles  to  some  property,  or 
testaments ;  but  they  are  now  put  aside  or  thrown  underfoot. 
Why,  except  that  possession  is  gotten,  that  Christ  is  risen, 
and  that  '  a  testament  is  of  no  strength  at  all  while  the  testator 
liveth '  ?  This  I  believe  is  no  misuse  of  Paul's  words,  but  an 
employment  of  them  in  their  mystic  sense,  just  as  the  New 
Testament  writers  quoted  the  Old  Testament.  There  is  a 
very  prominent  illuminated  E  on  one  of  the  documents  under 
the  table  (I  think  you  have  written  of  it  as  Greek  in  its  lines): 
I  cannot  but  fancy  it  is  the  initial  letter  of  'Resurrectio.' 
What  the  music  is,  Caird  has  sent  me  no  information  about ; 
he  was  to  enquire  of  some  friend  who  knew  about  old  church 
music.  The  prominent  bell  and  shell  on  the  table  puzzle  me, 
but  I  am  sure  mean  something.  Is  the  former  the  mass- 
bell? 

10.  "  The  statuettes  of  Venus  and  the  horse,  and  the  various 
antique  fragments  on  the  shelf  behind  the  arm-chair  are,  I 
think,  symbols  of  the  world,  of  the  flesh,  placed  behind  even 
the  old  Scripture  studies.  You  remember  Jerome's  early 
learning,  and  the  vision  that  awakened  him  from  Pagan 
thoughts  (to  read  the  laws  of  the  True  City)  with  the  words, 
'Ubi  est  thesaurus  tiius/ 

"I  have  put  these  things  down  without  trying  to  dress 
them  into  an  argument,  that  you  may  judge  them  as  one 
would  gather  them  hap-hazard  from  the  picture.  Individu- 
ally several  of  them  might  be  weak  arguments,  but  together 
I  do  think  they  are  conclusive.  The  key-note  is  struck  by  the 
empty  altar  bearing  the  risen  Lord.  I  do  not  think  Carpaccio 
thought  of  immortality  in  the  symbols  derived  from  mor- 
tal life,  through  which  the  ordinary  mind  feels  after  it.  Nor 


110 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


surely  did  Dante  (V.  esp.  Par.  IV.  27  and  following  lines). 
And  think  of  the  words  in  Canto  II : — 

u  'Dentro  dal  ciel  della  Divina  Pace 
Si  gira  1111  corpo  nella  cui  virtute 
Ue&ser  di  tutto  suo  coniento  giace.' 

But  there  is  no  use  heaping  up  passages,  as  the  sense  that 
in  using  human  language  he  merely  uses  mystic  metaphor  is 
continually  present  in  Dante,  and  often  explicitly  stated. 
And  it  is  surely  the  error  of  regarding  these  picture  writings 
for  children  who  live  in  the  nursery  of  Time  and  Space,  as  if 
they  were  the  truth  itself,  which  can  be  discovered  only 
spiritually,  that  leads  to  the  inconsistencies  of  thought  and 
foolish  talk  of  even  good  men. 

' 'St.  Jerome,  in  this  picture,  is  young  and  brown-haired, 
not  bent  and  with  long  white  beard,  as  in  the  two  others.  I 
connect  this  with  the  few  who  have  stretched  their  necks 

M  lPer  tempo  al  pan  degli  angeli  del  quale 
Vivesi  qui  ma  11011  si  vien  satollo.' 

St.  Jerome  lives  here  by  what  is  really  the  immortal  bread ; 
but  shall  not  here  be  filled  with  it  so  as  to  hunger  no 
more  ;  and  under  his  earthly  cloak  comprehends  as  little  per- 
haps the  Great  Love  he  hungers  after  and  is  fed  by,  as  his 
dog  comprehends  him.  I  am  sure  the  dog  is  there  with  some 
such  purpose  of  comparison.  On  that  very  last  quoted  pas- 
sage of  Dante,  Landino's  commentary  (it  was  printed  in 
Venice,  1491)  annotates  the  words  '  che  drizzaste  1  eollo/ 
with  a  quotation, 

"  '  Cum  spectant  animalia  cetera  terrain 
Os  liomini  sublime  dedit,  coeluin  tueri  jussit." 

I  was  myself  brought  entirely  to  pause  of  happy  wonder 
when  first  my  friend  showed  me  the  lessons  hidden  in  these 
pictures  ;  nor  do  I  at  all  expect  the  reader  at  first  to  believe 
them.  But  the  condition  of  his  possible  belief  in  them  is  that 
he  approach  them  with  a  pure  heart  and  a  meek  one  ;  for  this 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLA  YES. 


Ill 


Carpaccio  teaching  is  like  the  talisman  of  Salad  in,  which, 
clipped  in  pure  water,  made  it  a  healing  draught,  but  by  it- 
self seemed  only  a  little  inwoven  web  of  silk  and  gold. 

But  to-day,  that  we  may  be  able  to  read  better  to-morrow, 
we  will  leave  this  cell  of  sweet  mysteries,  and  examine  some 
of  the  painter's  earlier  work,  in  which  we  may  learn  his  way 
of  writing  more  completely,  and  understand  the  degree  in 
which  his  own  personal  character,  or  prejudices,  or  imperfec- 
tions, mingle  in  the  method  of  his  scholarship,  and  colour  or 
divert  the  current  of  his  inspiration. 

Therefore  now,  taking  gondola  again,  you  must  oe  carried 
through  the  sea-streets  to  a  far-away  church,  in  the  part  of 
Venice  now  wholly  abandoned  to  the  poor,  though  a  kingly 
saint's — St.  Louis's  :  but  there  are  other  things  in  this  church 
to  be  noted,  besides  Carpaccio,  which  will  be  useful  in  illus- 
tration of  him  ;  and  to  see  these  rightly,  you  must  compare 
with  them  things  of  the  same  kind  in  another  church  where 
there  are  no  Carpaccios, — namely,  St.  Pantaleone,  to  which, 
being  the  nearer,  you  had  better  first  direct  your  gondolier. 

For  the  ceilings  alone  of  these  two  churches,  St.  Pantaleone 
and  St.  Alvise,  are  worth  a  day's  pilgrimage  in  their  sorrow- 
ful lesson. 

All  the  mischief  that  Paul  Veronese  did  may  be  seen  in  the 
halting  and  hollow  magnificences  of  them  ; — all  the  absurdi- 
ties, either  of  painting  or  piety,  under  afflatus  of  vile  ambition. 
Roof  puffed  up  and  broken  through,  as  it  were,  with  breath 
of  the  fiend  from  below,  instead  of  pierced  by  heaven's  light 
from  above  ;  the  rags  and  ruins  of  Venetian  skill,  honour,  and 
worship,  exploded  all  together  sky-high.  Miracles  of  frantic 
mistake,  of  flaunting  and  thunderous  hypocrisy, — universal 
lie,  shouted  through  speaking-trumpets. 

If  I  could  let  you  stand  for  a  few  minutes,  first  under 
Giotto's  four-square  vault  at  Assisi,  only  thirty  feet  from  the 
ground,  the  four  triangles  of  it  written  with  the  word  of  God 
close  as  an  illuminated  missal,  and  then  suddenly  take  you 
under  these  vast  staggering  Temples  of  Folly  and  Iniquity, 
you  would  know  what  to  think  of  "  modern  development  * 
thenceforth. 


112 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


The  roof  of  St.  Pantaleone  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  curious 
example  in  Europe  of  the  vulgar  dramatic  effects  of  painting. 
That  of  St.  Alvise  is  little  more  than  a  caricature  of  the  mean 
passion  for  perspective,  which  was  the  first  effect  of  "  science  " 
joining  itself  with  art.  And  under  it,  by  strange  coincidence, 
there  are  also  two  notable  pieces  of  plausible  modern  senti- 
ment,— celebrated  pieces  by  Tiepolo.  He  is  virtually  the  be- 
ginner of  Modernism  :  these  two  pictures  of  his  are  exactly 
like  what  a  first-rate  Parisian  Academy  student  wTould  do,  set- 
ting himself  to  conceive  the  sentiment  of  Christ's  flagellation, 
after  having  read  unlimited  quantities  of  George  Sand  and 
Dumas.  It  is  well  that  they  chance  to  be  here  :  look  thor- 
oughly at  them  and  their  dramatic  chiaroscuros  for  a  little 
time,  observing  that  no  face  is  without  some  expression  of 
crime  or  pain,  and  that  everything  is  always  put  dark  against 
light  or  light  against  dark.  Then  return  to  the  entrance  of 
the  church,  where  under  the  gallery,  frameless  and  neglected, 
hang  eight  old  pictures, — bought,  the  story  goes,  at  a  pawn- 
broker's in  the  Giudecca  for  forty  sous  each,1 — to  me  among 
the  most  interesting  pieces  of  art  in  North  Italy,  for  they  are 
the  only  examples  I  know  of  an  entirely  great  man's  work  in 
extreme  youth.  They  are  Carpaccio's,  when  he  cannot  have 
been  more  than  eight  or  ten  years  old,  and  painted  then  half 
in  precocious  pride  and  half  in  play.  I  would  give  anything 
to  know  their  real  history.  "School  pictures,"  C.  C.  call 
them  !  as  if  they  wrere  merely  bad  imitations,  when  they  are 
the  most  unaccountable  and  unexpected  pieces  of  absurd 
fancy  that  ever  came  into  a  boy's  head,  and  scrabbled,  rather 
than  painted,  by  a  boy's  hand, — yet,  with  the  eternal  master- 
touch  in  them  already. 

Subjects. — 1.  Rachel  at  the  Well.  2.  Jacob  and  his  Sons 
before  Joseph.  3.  Tobias  and  the  Angel.  4.  The  Three 
Holy  Children.  5.  Job.  6.  Moses,  and  Adoration  of  Golden 
Calf  (C.  C).  7.  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  8.  Joshua 
and  falling  Jericho. 

1  "  Originally  in  St.  Maria  della  Vergine  "  (C.  C).  Why  are  not  the 
documents  on  the  authority  of  which  these  statements  are  made  given 
clearly  V 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


113 


In  all  these  pictures  the  qualities  of  Carpaccio  are  already 
entirely  pronounced  ;  the  grace,  quaintness,  simplicity,  and 
deep  intentness  on  the  meaning  of  incidents.  I  don't  know 
if  the  grim  statue  in  No.  4  is,  as  C.  C.  have  it,  the  statue  of 
Nebuchadnezzar's  dream,  or  that  which  he  erected  for  the 
three  holy  ones  to  worship, — and  already  I  forget  how  the 
"  worship  of  the  golden  calf  "  according  to  C.  C,  and  "  Moses" 
according  to  my  note,  (and  I  believe  the  inscription,  for  most 
of,  if  not  all,  the  subjects  are  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
persons  represented,)  are  relatively  pourtrayed.  But  I  have 
not  forgotten,  and  beg  my  readers  to  note  specially,  the  ex- 
quisite strangeness  of  the  boy's  rendering  of  the  meeting  of 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  One  would  have  expected 
the  Queen's  retinue,  and  her  spice-bearing  camels,  and  Solo- 
mon's house  and  his  servants,  and  his  cup-bearers  in  all  their 
glory  ;  and  instead  of  this,  Solomon  and  the  Queen  stand  at 
the  opposite  ends  of  a  little  w^ooden  bridge  over  a  ditch,  and 
there  is  not  another  soul  near  them, — and  the  question  seems 
to  be  which  first  shall  set  foot  on  it ! 

Now,  what  can  we  expect  in  the  future  of  the  man  or  boy 
who  conceives  his  subjects,  or  is  liable  to  conceive  them, 
after  this  sort  ?  There  is  clearly  something  in  his  head  which 
we  cannot  at  all  make  out ;  a  ditch  must  be  to  him  the  Rubi- 
con, the  Euphrates,  the  Red  Sea, — Heaven  only  knows  what ! 
a  wooden  bridge  must  be  Rialto  in  embryo.  This  unattended 
King  and  Queen  must  mean  the  pre-eminence  of  uncounselled 
royalty,  or  what  not ;  in  a  word,  there's  no  saying,  and  no 
criticizing  him ;  and  the  less,  because  his  gift  of  colour  and 
his  enjoyment  of  all  visible  things  around  him  are  so  intense, 
so  instinctive,  and  so  constant,  that  he  is  never  to  be  thought 
of  as  a  responsible  person,  but  only  as  a  kind  of  magic  mirror 
which  flashes  back  instantly  whatever  it  sees  beautifully  ar- 
ranged, but  yet  will  flash  back  commonplace  things  often  as 
faithfully  as  others. 

I  was  especially  struck  with  this  character  of  his,  as  opposed 
to  the  grave  and  balanced  design  of  Luini,  when  after  work- 
ing six  months  with  Carpaccio,  I  went  back  to  the  St. 
Stephen  at  Milan,  in  the  Monasterio  Maggiore.    In  ordei 


114 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


to  do  justice  to  either  painter,  they  should  be  alternately 
studied  for  a  little  while.  In  one  respect,  Luini  greatly  gains, 
and  Carpaccio  suffers  by  this  trial  ;  for  whatever  is  in  the 
least  flat  or  hard  in  the  Venetian  is  felt  more  violently  by  con- 
trast with  the  infinite  sweetness  of  the  Lombard's  harmonies, 
while  only  by  contrast  with  the  vivacity  of  the  Venetian  can 
you  entirely  feel  the  depth  in  faintness,  and  the  grace  in 
quietness,  of  Luini's  chiaroscuro.  But  the  principal  point 
of  difference  is  in  the  command  which  Luini  has  over  his 
thoughts,  every  design  of  his  being  concentrated  on  its 
main  purpose  with  quite  visible  art,  and  all  accessories  that 
would  in  the  least  have  interfered  with  it  withdrawn  in 
merciless  asceticism ;  whereas  a  subject  under  Carpaccio's 
hand  is  always  just  as  it  would  or  might  have  occurred  in 
nature  ;  and  among  a  myriad  of  trivial  incidents,  you  are 
left,  by  your  own  sense  and  sympathy,  to  discover  the  vital 
one. 

For  instance,  there  are  two  small  pictures  of  his  in  the  Brera 
gallery  at  Milan,  which  may  at  once  be  compared  with  the 
Luinis  there.  I  find  the  following  notice  of  them  in  my  diary 
for  6th  September,  1876  :— 

"Here,  in  the  sweet  air,  with  a  whole  world  in  ruin  round 
me.  The  misery  of  my  walk  through  the  Brera  yesterday  no 
tongue  can  tell ;  but  two  curious  lessons  were  given  me  by 
Carpaccio.  The  first,  in  his  preaching  of  St.  Stephen — Ste- 
phen up  in  the  corner  where  nobody  would  think  of  him  ;  the 
doctors,  one  in  lecture  throne,  the  rest  in  standing  groups 
mostly — Stephen's  face  radiant  with  true  soul  of  heaven, — the 
doctors,  not  monsters  of  iniquity  at  all,  but  superbly  true  and 
quiet  studies  from  the  doctors  of  Carpaccio's  time  ;  doctors  of 
this  world — not  one  with  that  look  of  heaven,  but  respectable 
to  the  uttermost,  able,  just,  penetrating:  a  complete  assembly 
of  highly  trained  old  Oxford  men,  but  with  more  intentness. 
The  second,  the  Virgin  going  up  to  the  temple  ;  and  under 
the  steps  of  it,  a  child  of  ten  or  twelve  with  his  back  to  us, 
dressed  in  a  parti-  coloured,  square-cut  robe,  holding  a  fawn  in 
leash,  at  his  side  a  rabbit ;  on  the  steps  under  the  Virgin's 
feet  a  bas-relief  of  fierce  fight  of  men  with  horned  monsters 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


115 


like  rampant  snails  :  one  with  a  conger-eel's  body,  twining 
round  the  limb  of  the  man  who  strikes  it." 

Now  both  these  pictures  are  liable  to  be  passed  almost 
without  notice  ;  they  scarcely  claim  to  be  compositions  at  all ; 
but  the  one  is  a  confused  group  of  portraits  ;  the  other,  a 
quaint  piece  of  grotesque,  apparently  without  any  meaning, 
the  principal  feature  in  it,  a  child  in  a  parti- coloured 
cloak.  It  is  only  when,  with  more  knowledge  of  what  we 
may  expect  from  the  painter,  wTe  examine  both  pictures  care- 
fully, that  the  real  sense  of  either  comes  upon  us.  For  the 
heavenly  look  on  the  face  of  Stephen  is  not  set  off  with  raised 
light,  or  opposed  shade,  or  principality  of  place.  The  master 
trusts  only  to  what  nature  herself  would  have  trusted  in — ex- 
pression pure  and  simple.  If  you  cannot  see  heaven  in  the 
boy's  mind,  without  any  turning  on  of  the  stage  lights,  you 
shall  not  see  it  at  all. 

There  is  some  one  else,  however,  whom  you  may  see,  on 
looking  carefully  enough.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  group 
of  old  doctors  is  another  youth,  just  of  Stephen's  age.  And 
as  the  face  of  Stephen  is  full  of  heavenly  rapture,  so  that  of 
his  opposite  is  full  of  darkest  wrath,— the  religious  wrath 
which  all  the  authority  of  the  conscience  urges,  instead  of 
quenching.  The  old  doctors  hear  Stephen's  speech  with 
doubtful  pause  of  gloom  ;  but  this  youth  has  no  patience, — 
no  endurance  for  it.  He  will  be  the  first  to  cry,  Away  with 
him, — "  Whosoever  will  cast  a  stone  at  him,  let  them  lay  their 
mantle  at  my  feet." 

Again — looking  again  and  longer  at  the  other  pictures,  you 
will  first  correct  my  mistake  of  writing  "  fawn  " — discovering 
the  creature  held  by  the  boy  to  be  a  unicorn.1  Then  you 
will  at  once  know  that  the  whole  must  be  symbolic  ;  and 
looking  for  the  meaning  of  the  unicorn,  you  find  it  signifies 
chastity ;  and  then  you  see  that  the  bas-relief  on  the  steps, 
which  the  little  Virgin  ascends,  must  mean  the  warring  of 
the  old  strengths  of  the  world  with  lust :  which  theme  you 
will  find  presently  taken  up  also  and  completed  by  the  sym- 
bols of  St.  George's  Chapel.  If  now  you  pass  from  these  pict- 
1  Corrected  for  me  by  Mr.  G.  F.  Murray. 


116 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


tires  to  any  of  the  Luini  frescoes  in  the  same  gallery,  you  will 
at  once  recognize  a  total  difference  in  conception  and  treat- 
ment. The  thing  which  Luini  wishes  you  to  observe  is  held 
forth  to  you  with  direct  and  instant  proclamation.  The 
saint,  angel,  or  Madonna,  is  made  central  or  principal ;  every 
figure  in  the  surrounding  group  is  subordinate,  and  every  ac- 
cessory subdued  or  generalized.  All  the  precepts  of  conven- 
tional art  are  obeyed,  and  the  invention  and  originality  of  the 
master  are  only  shown  by  the  variety  with  which  he  adorns 
the  commonplace, — by  the  unexpected  grace  with  which  he 
executes  what  all  have  done, — and  the  sudden  freshness  with 
which  he  invests  what  all  have  thought. 

This  external  difference  in  the  manner  of  the  two  painters 
is  connected  with  a  much  deeper  element  in  the  constitution 
of  their  minds.  To  Carpaccio,  whatever  he  has  to  represent 
must  be  a  reality  ;  whether  a  symbol  or  not,  afterwards,  is  no 
matter,  the  first  condition  is  that  it  shall  be  real.  A  serpent, 
or  a  bird,  may  perhaps  mean  iniquity  or  purity  ;  but  pri- 
marily, they  must  have  real  scales  and  feathers.  But  with 
Luini,  everything  is  primarily  an  idea,  and  only  realized  so 
far  as  to  enable  you  to  understand  what  is  meant.  When  St. 
Stephen  stands  beside  Christ  at  his  scourging,  and  turns  to  us 
who  look  on,  asking  with  unmistakable  passion,  "  Was  ever 
sorrow  like  this  sorrow  ?"  Luini  does  not  mean  that  St. 
Stephen  really  stood  there  ;  but  only  that  the  thought  of  the 
saint  who  first  saw  Christ  in  glory  may  best  lead  us  to  the 
thought  of  Christ  in  pain.  But  when  Carpaccio  paints  St. 
Stephen  preaching,  he  means  to  make  us  believe  that  St* 
Stephen  really  did  preach,  and  as  far  as  he  can,  to  show  us 
exactly  how  he  did  it. 

And,  lastly,  to  return  to  the  point  at  which  we  left  him. 
His  own  notion  of  the  way  things  happened  may  be  a  very 
curious  one,  and  the  more  so  that  it  cannot  be  regulated  even 
by  himself,  but  is  the  result  of  the  singular  power  he  has  of 
seeing  things  in  vision  as  if  they  were  real.  So  that  when,  as 
we  have  seen,  he  paints  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
standing  at  opposite  ends  of  a  wooden  bridge  over  a  ditch, 
we  are  not  to  suppose  the  two  persons  are  less  real  to  him  on 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


117 


that  account,  though  absurd  to  us  ;  but  we  are  to  understand 
that  such  a  vision  of  them  did  indeed  appear  to  the  boy  who 
had  passed  all  his  dawning  life  among  wooden  bridges,  over 
ditches  ;  and  had  the  habit  besides  of  spiritualizing,  or  read- 
ing like  a  vision,  whatever  he  saw  with  eyes  either  of  the  body 
or  mind. 

The  delight  which  he  had  in  this  faculty  of  vision,  and  the 
industry  with  which  he  cultivated  it,  can  only  be  justly  esti- 
mated by  close  examination  of  the  marvellous  picture  in  the 
Correr  Museum,  representing  two  Venetian  ladies  with  their 
pets. 

In  the  last  general  statement  I  have  made  of  the  rank  of 
painters,  I  named  two  pictures  of  John  Bellini,  the  Madonna 
in  San  Zaccaria,  and  that  in  the  sacristy  of  the  Frari,  as,  so 
far  as  my  knowledge  went,  the  two  best  pictures  in  the  world. 
In  that  estimate  of  them  I  of  course  considered  as  one  chief 
element,  their  solemnity  of  purpose — as  another,  their  unpre- 
tending simplicity.  Putting  aside  these  higher  conditions, 
and  looking  only  to  perfection  of  execution  and  essentially 
artistic  powTer  of  design,  I  rank  this  Carpaccio  above  either  of 
them,  and  therefore,  as  in  these  respects,  the  best  picture  in 
the  world.  I  know  no  other  which  unites  every  nameable 
quality  of  painter's  art  in  so  intense  a  degree — breadth  with 
minuteness,  brilliancy  with  quietness,  decision  with  tender- 
ness, colour  with  light  and  shade  :  all  that  is  faithf ullest  in  Hol- 
land, fancifullest  in  Venice,  severest  in  Florence,  naturalest 
in  England.  Whatever  de  Hooghe  could  do  in  shade,  Van 
Eyck  in  detail — Giorgione  in  mass — Titian  in  colour — Bewick 
and  Landseer  in  animal  life,  is  here  at  once  ;  and  I  know  no 
other  picture  in  the  world  which  can  be  compared  with  it. 

It  is  in  tempera,  however,  not  oil :  and  I  must  note  in  pass- 
ing that  many  of  the  qualities  which  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  praising  in  Tintoret  and  Carpaccio,  as  consummate  achieve- 
ments in  oil-paintings,  are,  as  I  have  found  lately,  either  in 
tempera  altogether,  or  tempera  with  oil  above.  And  I  am 
disposed  to  think  that  ultimately  tempera  will  be  found  the 
proper  material  for  the  greater  number  of  most  delightful 
subjects. 


118 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


The  subject,  in  the  present  instance,  is  a  simple  study  ol 
animal  life  in  all  its  phases.  I  am  quite  sure  that  this  is  the 
meaning  of  the  picture  in  Carpaccio's  own  mind.  I  suppose 
him  to  have  been  commissioned  to  paint  the  portraits  of  two 
Venetian  ladies — that  he  did  not  altogether  like  his  models, 
but  yet  felt  himself  bound  to  do  his  best  for  them,  and  con- 
trived to  do  what  perfectly  satisfied  them  and  himself  too. 
He  has  painted  their  pretty  faces  and  pretty  shoulders,  their 
pretty  dresses  and  pretty  jewels,  their  pretty  ways  and  their 
pretty  playmates — and  what  would  they  have  more  ? — he  him- 
self secretly  laughing  at  them  all  the  time,  and  intending  the 
spectators  of  the  future  to  laugh  for  ever. 

It  may  be,  however,  that  I  err  in  supposing  the  picture  a 
portrait  commission.  It  may  be  simply  a  study  for  practice, 
gathering  together  every  kind  of  thing  which  he  could  get  to 
sit  to  him  quietly,  persuading  the  pretty  ladies  to  sit  to  him 
in  all  their  finery,  and  to  keep  their  pets  quiet  as  long  as  they 
could,  while  yet  he  gave  value  to  this  new  group  of  studies  in 
a  certain  unity  of  satire  against  the  vices  of  society  in  his 
time. 

Of  this  satirical  purpose  there  cannot  be  question  for  a 
moment,  with  any  one  who  knows  the  general  tone  of  the 
painter's  mind,  and  the  traditions  among  which  he  had  been 
educated.  In  all  the  didactic  painting  of  mediaeval  Chris- 
tianity, the  faultful  luxury  of  the  upper  classes  was  symbol- 
ized by  the  knight  with  his  falcon,  and  lady  with  her  pet  dog, 
both  in  splendid  dress.  This  picture  is  only  the  elaboration 
of  the  wrell-recognized  symbol  of  the  lady  with  her  pets  ;  but 
there  are  two  ladies — mother  and  daughter,  I  think — and  six 
pets,  a  big  dog,  a  little  dog,  a  parroquet,  a  peahen,  a  little 
boy,  and  a  china  vase.  The  youngest  of  the  women  sits  se- 
rene in  her  pride,  her  erect  head  pale  against  the  dark  sky 
— the  elder  is  playing  with  the  two  dogs  ;  the  least,  a  white 
terrier,  she  is  teaching  to  beg,  holding  him  up  by  his  fore- 
paws,  with  her  left  hand ;  in  her  right  is  a  slender  riding- 
whip,  which  the  larger  dog  has  the  end  of  in  his  mouth,  and 
will  not  let  go — his  mistress  also  having  dropped  a  letter,1  he 
1  The  painter's  signature  is  on  the  supposed  letter. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


113 


puts  his  paw  on  that  and  will  not  let  her  pick  it  up,  looking 
out  of  gentlest  eyes  in  arch  watchfulness  to  see  how  far  it  will 
please  her  that  he  should  carry  the  jest.  Behind  him  the 
green  parroquet,  red-eyed,  lifts  its  little  claw  as  if  disliking 
the  marble  pavement ;  then  behind  the  marble  balustrade 
with  gilded  capitals,  the  bird  and  little  boy  are  inlaid  with 
glowing  brown  and  red.  Nothing  of  Hunt  or  Turner  can 
surpass  the  plume  painting  of  the  bird  ;  nor  can  Holbein  sur- 
pass the  precision,  while  he  cannot  equal  the  radiance,  of  the 
porcelain  and  jewellery. 

To  mark  the  satirical  purpose  of  the  whole,  a  pair  of  ladies5 
shoes  are  put  in  the  corner,  (the  high-stilted  shoe,  being,  in 
fact,  a  slipper  on  the  top  of  a  column,)  which  were  the  gross- 
est and  absurdest  means  of  expressing  female  pride  in  the 
fifteenth  and  following  centuries. 

In  this  picture,  then,  you  may  discern  at  once  how  Carpac- 
cio  learned  his  business  as  a  painter,  and  to  what  consummate 
point  he  learned  it.1 

And  now,  if  you  have  begun  to  feel  the  power  of  these  minor 
pictures,  you  can  return  to  the  Academy  an^i  take  up  the  St. 
Ursula  series,  on  which,  however,  I  find  it  hopeless  to  reduce 
my  notes  to  any  available  form  at  present : — the  question  of 
the  influence  of  this  legend  on  Venetian  life  being  involved 
with  enquiries  belonging  properly  to  what  I  am  trying  to  do 
in  "St.  Mark's  Rest."  This  only  you  have  to  observe  gen- 
erally, that  being  meant  to  occupy  larger  spaces,  the  St.  Ursula 
pictures  are  very  unequal  in  interest,  and  many  portions  seem 
to  me  tired  work,  while  others  are  maintained  by  Mr.  Murray 
to  be  only  by  the  hands  of  scholars.  This,  however,  I  can  my- 
self assert,  that  I  never  yet  began  to  copy  or  examine  any  por- 
tion of  them  without  continually  increasing  admiration  ;  while 
yet  there  are  certain  shortcomings  and  morbid  faults  through- 

1  Another  Carpaccio,  in  the  Correr  Museum,  of  St.  Mary  and  Eliza- 
beth, is  entirely  lovely,  though  slighter  in  work  ;  and  the  so-called  Man- 
tegna,  but  more  probably  (according  to  Mr.  Murray)  early  John  Bellini, 
— the  Transfiguration, — full  of  majesty  and  earnestness.  Note  the  in* 
scribed  "  talk  "  with  Moses  and  Elias, — "  Have  pity  upon  me,  have  pity 
upon  me,  oh  ye  my  friends. " 


120 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


out,  unaccountable,  and  rendering  the  greater  part  of  the  work 
powerless  for  good  to  the  general  public.  Taken  as  a  con- 
nected series,  the  varying  personality  of  the  saint  destroys  its 
interest  totally.  The  girl  talking  to  her  father  in  539  is  not 
the  girl  who  dreams  in  533  ;  and  the  gentle  little  dreamer  is 
still  less  like  the  severe,  stiffly  dressed,  and  not  in  any  supreme 
degree  well  favoured,  bride,  in  542  ;  while  the  middle-aged 
woman,  without  any  claim  to  beauty  at  all,  who  occupies  the 
principal  place  in  the  final  Gloria,  cannot  by  any  effort  of  im- 
agination be  connected  with  the  figure  of  the  young  girl  kneel- 
ing for  the  Pope's  blessing  in  546. 

But  indeed  had  the  story  been  as  consistently  told  as  the 
accessories  are  perfectly  painted,  there  would  have  been  no 
occasion  for  me  now  to  be  lecturing  on  the  beauties  of  Car- 
paccio.  The  public  would  long  since  have  discovered  them, 
and  adopted  him  for  a  favourite.  That  precisely  in  the  par- 
ticulars which  would  win  popular  attention,  the  men  whom  it 
would  be  most  profitable  for  the  public  to  study  should  so 
often  fail,  becomes  to  me,  as  I  grow  older,  one  of  those  deepest 
mysteries  of  life,  which  I  only  can  hope  to  have  explained  to 
me  when  my  task  of  interpretation  is  ended. 

But,  for  the  sake  of  Christian  charity,  I  would  ask  every 
generous  Protestant  to  pause  for  a  while  before  the  meeting 
under  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  (546). 

"  Nobody  knows  anything  about  those  old  things,"  said  an 
English  paterfamilias  to  some  enquiring  member  of  his  family, 
in  the  hearing  of  my  assistant,  then  at  work  on  this  picture. 
Which  saying  is  indeed  supremely  true  of  us  nationally.  But 
without  requiring  us  to  know  anything,  this  picture  puts  be- 
fore us  some  certainties  respecting  mediaeval  Catholicism, 
which  we  shall  do  well  to  remember. 

In  the  first  place,  you  will  find  that  all  these  bishops  and 
cardinals  are  evidently  portraits.  Their  faces  are  too  varied 
- — too  quiet — too  complete — to  have  been  invented  by  even 
the  mightiest  invention.  Carpaccio  was  simply  taking  the 
features  of  the  priesthood  of  his  time,  throwing  aside,  doubt- 
less, here  and  there,  matter  of  offence  ;— the  too  settled  gloom 
of  one,  the  evident  subtlety  of  another,  the  sensuality  of  a 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


121 


third  ;  but  finding  beneath  all  that,  what  was  indeed  the  con- 
stitutional power  and  pith  of  their  minds, — in  the  deep  of 
them,  rightly  thoughtful,  tender,  and  humble. 

There  is  one  curious  little  piece  of  satire  on  the  fault  of 
the  Church  in  making  cardinals  of  too  young  persons.  The 
third,  in  the  row  of  four  behind  St.  Ursula,  is  a  mere  boy, 
very  beautiful,  but  utterly  careless  of  what  is  going  on,  and 
evidently  no  more  fit  to  be  a  cardinal  than  a  young  calf  would 
be.  The  stiffness  of  his  white  dress,  standing  up  under  his 
chin  as  if  he  had  only  put  it  on  that  day,  draws  especial  atten- 
tion to  him. 

The  one  opposite  to  him  also,  without  this  piece  of  white 
dress,  seems  to  be  a  mere  man  of  the  world.  But  the  others 
have  all  grave  and  refined  faces.  That  of  the  Pope  himself  is 
quite  exquisite  in  its  purity,  simple-heartedness,  and  joyful 
wonder  at  the  sight  of  the  child  kneeling  at  his  feet,  in  whom 
he  recognizes  one  whom  he  is  himself  to  learn  of,  and  follow. 

The  more  I  looked  at  this  picture,  the  more  I  became  won- 
derstruck  at  the  way  the  faith  of  the  Christian  Church  has 
been  delivered  to  us  through  a  series  of  fables,  which,  partly 
meant  as  such,  are  over-ruled  into  expressions  of  truth — but 
how  much  truth,  it  is  only  by  our  own  virtuous  life  that  we 
can  know.  Only  remember  always  in  criticizing  such  a  pict- 
ure, that  it  no  more  means  to  tell  you  as  a  fact 1  that  St. 
Ursula  led  this  long  procession  from  the  sea  and  knelt  thus 
before  the  Pope,  than  Mantegna's  St.  Sebastian  means  that 
the  saint  ever  stood  quietly  and  happily,  stuck  full  of  arrows. 
It  is  as  much  a  mythic  symbol  as  the  circles  and  crosses  of 
the  Carita ;  but  only  Carpaccio  carries  out  his  symbol  into 
delighted  realization,  so  that  it  begins  to  be  absurd  to  us  in 
the  perceived  impossibility.  But  it  only  signifies  the  essential 
truth  of  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost  filling  the  whole  body  of 
the  Christian  Church  with  visible  inspiration,  sometimes  in 
old  men,  sometimes  in  children  ;  yet  never  breaking  the  laws 
of  established  authority  and  subordination — the  greater  saint 

1  If  it  had  been  a  fact,  of  course  lie  would  have  liked  it  all  the  better, 
as  in  the  picture  of  St.  Stephen ;  but  though  only  an  idea,  it  must  be 
realized  to  the  full. 


122 


THE  SHEINE  OF  THE  SLAVES. 


blessed  by  the  lesser,  when  the  lesser  is  in  the  higher  place 
of  authority,  and  all  the  common  and  natural  glories  and  de- 
lights of  the  world  made  holy  by  its  influence  :  field,  and 
earth,  and  mountain,  and  sea,  and  bright  maiden's  grace,  and 
old  men's  quietness, — all  in  one  music  of  moving  peace — the 
very  procession  of  them  in  their  multitude  like  a  chanted 
hymn — the  purple  standards  drooping  in  the  light  air  that  yet 
can  lift  St.  George's  gonfalon  ; 1  and  the  angel  Michael  alight- 
ing— himself  seen  in  vision  instead  of  his  statue — on  the 
Angel's  tower,  sheathing  his  sword. 

What  I  have  to  say  respecting  the  picture  that  closes  the 
series,  the  martyrdom  and  funeral,  is  partly  saddening,  partly 
depreciatory,  and  shall  be  reserved  for  another  place.  The 
picture  itself  has  been  more  injured  and  repainted  than  any 
other  (the  face  of  the  recumbent  figure  entirely  so)  ;  and 
though  it  is  full  of  marvellous  passages,  I  hope  that,  the  gen- 
eral traveller  will  seal  his  memory  of  Carpaccio  in  the  picture 
last  described. 

1  It  is  especially  to  be  noted  with  Carpaccio,  and  perhaps  more  in  this 
than  any  other  of  the  series,  that  he  represents  the  baauty  of  religion 
always  in  animating  the  present  world,  and  never  &foes  the  charm  to 
the  clear  far-away  sky  which  is  so  constant  in  Florentine  sacred  pictures. 


SECOND  SUPPLEMENT. 

THE  PLACE  OF  DEAGOM 

JAMES  REDDIE  ANDERSON,  M.Jl 


PKEFACE. 


Among  the  many  discomforts  of  advancing  age,  which  no 
one  understands  till  he  feels  them,  there  is  one  which  I  sel- 
dom have  heard  complained  of,  and  which,  therefore,  I  find 
unexpectedly  disagreeable.  I  knew,  by  report,  that  when  I 
grew  old  I  should  most  probably  wish  to  "be  young  again  ; 
and,  very  certainly,  be  ashamed  of  much  that  I  had  done,  or 
omitted,  in  the  active  years  of  life.  I  was  prepared  for  sor- 
row in  the  loss  of  friends  by  death  ;  and  for  pain,  in  the  loss 
of  myself,  by  weakness  or  sickness.  These,  and  many  other 
minor  calamities,  I  have  been  long  accustomed  to  anticipate ; 
and  therefore  to  read,  in  preparation  for  them,  the  confes- 
sions of  the  weak,  and  the  consolations  of  the  wise. 

But,  as  the  time  of  rest,  or  of  departure,  approaches  me, 
not  only  do  many  of  the  evils  I  had  heard  of,  and  prepared 
for,  present  themselves  in  more  grievous  shapes  than  I  had 
expected ;  but  one  which  I  had  scarcely  ever  heard  of,  tor- 
ments me  increasingly  every  hour. 

I  had  understood  it  to  be  in  the  order  of  things  that  the 
aged  should  lament  their  vanishing  life  as  an  instrument  they 
had  never  used,  now  to  be  taken  away  from  them  ;  but  not  as 
an  instrument,  only  then  perfectly  tempered  and  sharpened, 
and  snatched  out  of  their  hands  at  the  instant  they  could  have 
done  some  real  service  with  it.  Whereas,  my  own  feeling, 
now,  is  that  everything  which  has  hitherto  happened  to  me, 
or  been  done  by  me,  whether  well  or  ill,  has  been  fitting  me 
to  take  greater  fortune  more  prudently,  and  do  better  work 
more  thoroughly.  And  just  when  I  seem  to  be  coming  out  of 
school — very  sorry  to  have  been  such  a  foolish  boy,  yet  hav- 
ing taken  a  prize  or  two,  and  expecting  to  enter  now  upon 


126 


PREFACE. 


some  more  serious  business  than  cricket, — I  am  dismissed  by 
the  Master  I  hoped  to  serve,  with  a — "  That's  all  I  want  of 
you,  sir." 

I  imagine  the  sorrowfulness  of  these  feelings  must  be 
abated,  in  the  minds  of  most  men,  by  a  pleasant  vanity  in 
their  hope  of  being  remembered  as  the  discoverers,  at  least, 
of  some  important  truth,  or  the  founders  of  some  exclusive 
system  called  after  their  own  names.  But  I  have  never  ap- 
plied myself  to  discover  anything,  being  content  to  praise 
what  had  already  been  discovered  ;  and  the  only  doctrine  or 
system  peculiar  to  me  is  the  abhorrence  of  all  that  is  doctrinal 
instead  of  demonstrable,  and  of  all  that  is  systematic  instead 
of  useful ;  so  that  no  true  disciple  of  mine  will  ever  be  a 
"  Ruskinian  "  ! — he  will  follow,  not  me,  but  the  instincts  of  his 
own  soul,  and  the  guidance  of  its  Creator.  "Which,  though 
not  a  sorrowful  subject  of  contemplation  in  itself,  leaves  me 
none  of  the  common  props  and  crutches  of  halting  pride.  I 
know  myself  to  be  a  true  master,  because  my  pupils  are  well 
on  the  way  to  do  better  than  I  have  done ;  but  there  is  not 
always  a  sense  of  extreme  pleasure  in  watching  their  advance, 
where  one  has  no  more  strength,  though  more  than  ever  the 
will,  to  companion  them. 

Not  always — be  it  again  confessed  ;  but  when  I  first  read 
the  legend  of  St.  George,  which  here  follows,  my  eyes  grew 
wet  with  tears  of  true  delight ;  first,  in  the  knowledge  of  so 
many  beautiful  things,  at  once  given  to  me  ;  and  then  in  the 
surety  of  the  wide  good  that  the  work  thus  begun  would 
spring  up  into,  in  wrays  before  wholly  unconceived  by  me.  It 
was  like  coming  to  the  brow  of  some  healthy  moorland,  where 
here  and  there  one  had  watched,  or  helped,  the  reaper  of 
some  patch  of  thinly  scattered  corn  ;  and  seeing  suddenly  a 
great  plain  white  to  the  harvest,  far  as  the  horizon.  That  the 
first-fruits  of  it  might  be  given  in  no  manner  of  self-exaltation 
— Fors  has  determined  that  my  young  scholar  should  have 
his  part  of  mortification  as  well  as  I,  just  in  the  degree  in 
which  either  of  us  may  be  mortified  in  the  success  of  others. 
For  we  both  thought  that  the  tracing  of  this  chain  of  tra- 
dition in  the  story  of  St.  George  was  ours  alone  ;  and  that  we 


PREFACE. 


127 


had  rather  to  apprehend  the  doubt  of  our  result,  than  the  dis- 
pute of  our  originality.  Nor  was  it,  indeed,  without  extreme 
discomfiture  and  vexation  that  after  I  had  been  hindered 
from  publishing  this  paper  for  upwards  of  ten  months  from 
the  time  it  was  first  put  into  my  hands,  I  read,  on  a  bright 
autumn  morning  at  Brantwood,  when  I  expected  the  author's 
visit,  (the  first  he  had  made  to  me  in  my  own  house,)  a  para- 
graph in  the  "  Spectator,"  giving  abstract  of  exactly  the  same 
historical  statements,  made  by  a  French  antiquary,  M.  Cler- 
mont-Ganneau. 

I  am  well  assured  that  Professor  Airey  was  not  more 
grieved,  though  I  hope  he  was  more  conscience-stricken,  for 
his  delay  in  the  publication  of  Mr.  Adams'  calculations,  than  I 
was,  for  some  days  after  seeing  this  anticipation  of  my  friend's 
discoveries.  He  relieved  my  mind  himself,  after  looking  into 
the  matter,  by  pointing  out  to  me  that  the  original  paper  had 
been  read  by  M.  Clermont-Ganneau,  before  the  Academie  des 
Inscriptions  et  Belles-lettres  of  Paris,  two  months  before  his 
own  investigations  had  begun,  and  that  all  question  of  prior- 
ity was,  therefore,  at  an  end.  It  remained  for  us  only  to  sur- 
render, both  of  us,  what  complacency  we  should  have  had  in 
first  announcing  these  facts ;  and  to  take  a  nobler  pleasure  in 
the  confirmation  afforded  of  their  truth  by  the  coincidence,  to 
a  degree  of  accuracy  which  neither  of  us  had  ever  known  take 
place  before  in  the  work  of  two  entirely  independent  investi- 
gators, between  M.  Clermont-Ganneau's  conclusions  and  our 
own.  I  therefore  desired  my  friend  to  make  no  alterations  in 
his  paper  as  it  then  stood,  and  to  make  no  reference  himself 
to  the  French  author,  but  to  complete  his  own  course  of  in- 
vestigation independently,  as  it  was  begun.  We  shall  have 
some  bits  all  to  ourselves,  before  we  have  done  ;  and  in  the 
meantime  give  reverent  thanks  to  St,  George,  for  his  help,  to 
France  as  well  as  to  England,  in  enabling  the  two  nations  to 
read  together  the  truth  of  his  tradition,  on  the  distant  clouds 
of  Heaven  and  Time. 

Mr.  Anderson's  work  remains  entirely  distinct,  hi  its  inter- 
pretation of  Carpaccio's  picture  by  this  tradition,  and  since  at 
the  mouth  of  two — or  three,  witnesses  shall  a  word  be  estab- 


128 


PREFACE. 


lished,  Carpaccio  himself  thus  becomes  the  third,  and  the 
chief,  witness  to  its  truth  ;  and  to  the  power  of  it  on  the  far- 
thest race  of  the  Knights  of  Venice. 

The  present  essay  treats  only  of  the  first  picture  in  the 
chapel  of  St.  George.  I  hope  it  may  now  be  soon  followed 
by  its  author's  consecutive  studies  of  the  other  subjects,  in 
which  he  has  certainly  no  priority  of  effort  to  recognize,  and 
has,  with  the  help  of  the  good  Saints  and  no  other  persons, 
done  all  that  we  shall  need.  J.  Buskin. 

Brantwood, 

26th  January,  1878. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEAGONS. 


"  'Ewor)aras  on  rhv  noir]r^i/  5eoi,  efrrep  fxcWot  woitit^s  ali/at,  iroisip  /xvdtvs 
aXK'  ov  \6yovs." — Plat.  Phcedo,  61,  B. 

On  the,  eve  of  the  Feast  of  the  Annunciation,  in  the  year  of 
Christ  1452,  the  Council  of  Ten,  by  decree,  permitted  certain 
Dalmatians  settled  in  Venice  to  establish  a  Lay  Brotherhood, 
called  of  St.  George  and  of  St.  Tryphonius.  The  brothers 
caused  to  be  written  in  illuminated  letters  on  the  first  pages 
of  their  minute  book  their  "  memorandum  of  association. " 
They  desire  to  "  hold  united  in  sacred  bonds  men  of  Dalma- 
tian blood,  to  render  homage  to  God  and  to  His  saints  by 
charitable  endeavours  and  religious  ceremonies,  and  to  help 
by  holy  sacrifices  the  souls  of  brothers  alive  and  dead."  The 
brotherhood  gave,  and  continues  to  give,  material  support  to 
the  poor  of  Dalmatian  blood  in  Venice ;  money  to  the  old,  and 
education  to  the  young.  For  prayer  and  adoration  it  built 
the  chapel  known  as  St.  George's  of  the  Sclavonians.  In  this 
chapel,  during  the  first  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Car- 
paccio  painted  a  series  of  pictures.  First,  three  from  the 
story  of  St.  Jerome — not  that  St.  Jerome  was  officially  a  patron 
of  the  brothers,  but  a  fellow-countryman,  and  therefore,  as  it 
were,  an  ally  ; — then  three  from  the  story  of  St.  George,  one 
from  that  of  St.  Tryphonius,  and  two  smaller  from  the  Gospel 
History.  Allowing  for  doorways,  window,  and  altar,  these 
nine  pictures  fill  the  circuit  of  the  chapel  walls. 

Those  representing  St.  George  are  placed  opposite  those  of 
St.  Jerome.  In  the  anti-chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  Tintoret, 
who  studied,  not  without  result  otherwise,  these  pictures  of 
Carpaccio's,  has  placed  the  same  saints  over  against  each  other. 
To  him,  as  to  Carpaccio,  they  represented  the  two  sides,  practi- 


130 


TEE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


cal  and  contemplative,  of  faithful  life.  This  balance  we  still, 
though  with  less  completeness,  signify  by  the  linked  names 
of  Martha  and  Mary,  and  Plato  has  expressed  it  fully  by  the 
respective  functions  assigned  in  his  ideal  state  to  philosophers 
and  guardians.  The  seer  "  able  to  grasp  the  eternal,"  "  spec- 
tator of  all  time  and  of  all  existence," — you  may  see  him  on 
your  right  as  you  enter  this  chapel, — recognizes  and  declares 
God's  Law  :  the  guardian  obeys,  enforces,  and,  if  need  be, 
fights  for  it. 

St.  George,  Husbandman  by  name,  and  <c  Tpo7rcuo<f>apos," 
Triumphant  Warrior,  by  title,  secures  righteous  peace,  turn- 
ing his  spear  into  a  pruning-hook  for  the  earthly  nature  of 
man.  He  is  also  to  be  known  as  "  MeyaAo/xaprvp,"  by  nis  deeds, 
the  great  witness  for  God  in  the  world,  and  "tuv  dOXrjT&v  6 
fjieyas  Ta^iapx^s,"  marshal  and  leader  of  those  who  strive  to 
obtain  an  incorruptible  crown.1  St.  Jerome,  the  seer,  learned 
also  in  all  the  wTisdom  of  the  heathen,  is,  as  Plato  tells  us  such 
a  man  should  be.  Lost  in  his  longing  after  "the  universal 
law  that  knits  human  things  with  divine,"  2  he  shows  himself 
gentle  and  without  fear,  having  no  terror  even  of  death.3  In 
the  second  picture  on  our  right  here  we  may  see  with  how 
great  quiet  the  old  man  has  laid  himself  down  to  die,  even 
such  a  pillow  beneath  his  head  as  was  under  Jacob's  upon  that 
night  of  vision  by  the  place  whicji  he  thenceforward  knew  to 
be  the  "  House  of  God,"  though  "  the  name  of  it  was  called 
*  Separation '  4  at  the  first."  5    The  fantastic  bilingual  inter? 

1  These  titles  are  taken  from  the  earliest  (Greek)  records  of  him.  The 
last  corresponds  to  that  of  Baron  Bradwardine's  revered  "  Mareschal- 
Duke." 

2  Plat.  Rep  ,  VI.  486  A.  3  Plat.  Rep.,  VI.  486  B. 
4  Luz.    This  word  stands  also  for  the  almond  tree,  flourishing  when 

desire  fails,  and  "  man  goeth  to  his  long  home." 

p  In  the  21st  and  22nd  Cantos  of  the  "Paradise,"  Dante,  too,  connects 
the  Dream  of  Jacob  with  the  ascetic,  living  where  "e  consecrato  un 
ermo,  Che  suole  esser  disposto  a  sola  latria."  This  is  in  a  sphere  of 
heaven  where,  '*  la  dolce  sinfonia  del  Paradiso  "  is  heard  by  mortal  ears 
only  as  overmastering  thunder,  and  where  the  pilgrim  is  taught  that 
no  created  vision,  not  the  seraph's  '*  che  in  Dio  piu  l'occhio  ha  fisso  " 
may  read  that  eternal  statute  by  whose  appointment  spirits  of  the  saints 
go  forth  upon  their  Master  s  business  and  return  to  Him  again. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


131 


pretation  of  Jerome's  name  given  in  the  "Golden  Legend," 
standard  of  mediaeval  mythology,  speaks  to  the  same  effect : 
"Hieronimus,  quod  est  Sanctum  Nemus,"  Holy  Grove,  "  a 
nemore  ubi  aliquando  conversatus  est,"'  from  that  one  in  which 
he  sometimes  had  his  walk — "  Se  dedit  et  sacri  ne  moris  per- 
palluit  umbra,"  1  but  not  beneath  the  laurels  of  "  l'un  giogo 
de  Parnaso,"  2  to  whose  inferior  summit,  only,  Dante  in  that 
line  alludes,  nor  now  under  olive  boughs — ■ 

"  where  the  Attick  bird 
Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long," 

but  where,  once  on  a  winter  night,  shepherds  in  their  vigil 
heard  other  singing,  where  the  palm  bearer  of  burdens,  wit- 
ness of  victorious  hope,  offers  to  every  man,  for  the  gathering, 
fruit  unto  everlasting  life.  "Ad  Bethleem  oppidum  remea- 
vit,  ubi,  prudens  animal,  ad  prsesepe  Domini  se  obtulit  per- 
mansurum."  "He  went,  as  though  home,  to  the  town  of 
Bethlehem,  and  like  a  wise  domestic  creature  presented 
himself  at  his  Master's  manger  to  abide  there." 

After  the  pictures  of  St.  George  comes  that  of  St.  Try- 
phonius,  telling  how  the  prayer  of  a  little  child  shall  conquer 
the  basilisk  of  earthly  pride,  though  the  soldier's  spear  cannot 
overthrow  this  monster,  nor  maiden's  zone  bind  him.  After 
the  picture  of  St.  Jerome  we  are  given  the  Calling  of  Matthew, 
in  which  Carpaccio  endeavours  to  declare  howr  great  joy  fills 
the  fugitive  servant  of  Kiches  when  at  last  he  does  homage  as 
true  man  of  another  Master.  Between  these  two  is  set  the 
central  picture  of  the  nine,  small,  dark  itself,  and  in  a  dark 
corner,  in  arrangement  following  pretty  closely  the  simple 
tradition  of  earlier  Venetian  masters.  The  scene  is  an  untilled 
garden — the  subject,  the  Agony  of  our  Lord. 

The  prominent  feature  of  the  stories  Carpaccio  has  chosen 
— setting  aside  at  present  the  two  gospel  incidents — is  that, 
though  heartily  Christian,  they  are  historically  drawn  quite 
as  much  from  Greek  as  from  mediaeval  mythology.  Even  in 
the  scenes  from  St.  Jerome's  life,  a  well-known  classical  tale, 


1  Dante,  "  Eclogues,"  i.  30. 


2  Dante,  1 'Par."  I.  16. 


132 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS, 


which  mingled  with  his  legend,  is  introduced,  and  all  the 
paintings  contain  much  ancient  religious  symbolism.  St. 
Tryphonius'  conquest  of  the  basilisk  is,  as  we  shall  see,  al- 
most purely  a  legend  of  Apollo.  From  the  middle  ages  on- 
wards it  has  been  often  remarked  how  closely  the  story  of 
St.  George  and  the  Dragon  resembles  that  of  Perseus  and 
Andromeda.    It  does  not  merely  resemble, — it  is  that  story. 

The  earliest  and  central  shrine  of  St.  George, — his  church, 
famous  during  the  crusades,  at  Lydda, — rose  by  the  stream 
which  Pausanias,  in  the  second  century,  saw  running  still 
"  red  as  blood,"  because  Perseus  had  bathed  there  after  Ms 
conquest  of  the  sea  monster.  Prom  the  neighbouring  town  of 
Joppa,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  the  skeleton  of  that  monster  was 
brought  by  M.  Scaurus  to  Rome  in  the  first  century  b.c.  St. 
Jerome  was  shown  on  this  very  coast  a  rock  known  by  tra- 
dition as  that  to  which  Andromeda  had  been  bound.  Before 
his  day  Josephus  had  seen  in  that  rock  the  holes  worn  by  her 
fetters. 

In  the  place  chosen  by  fate  for  this  the  most  famous  and 
finished  example  of  harmony  between  the  old  faith  and  the 
new  there  is  a  strange  double  piece  of  real  mythology.  Many 
are  offended  when  told  that  with  the  best  teaching  of  the 
Christian  Church  Gentile  symbolism  and  story  have  often 
mingled.  Some  still  lament  vanished  dreams  of  the  world's 
morning,  echo  the 

44  Voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament," 

by  woodland  altar  and  sacred  thicket.  But  Lydda  was  the 
city  where  St.  Peter  raised  from  death  to  doubly-marvellous 
service  that  loved  garment-maker,  full  of  good  works,  whose 
name  was  Wild  Roe — Greek1  type  of  dawn  with  its  pure 
visions.  And  Lydda  "  was  nigh  unto  Joppa,"  2  where  was  let 
down  from  heaven  the  mystic  sheet,  full  of  every  kind  of  liv- 

1  The  Hebrew  poets,  too,  knew  "  the  Hind  of  the  glow  of  dawn." 

2  Near  Joppa  the  Moslem  (who  also  reverences  St.  George)  sees  the 
field  of  some  great  final  contest  between  the  Evil  and  the  Good,  upon 
whom  the  ends  of  the  world  shall  have  come  —a  contest  surely  that  will 
require  the  presence  of  our  warrior-marshal. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


133 


ing  creature,  (this,  centuries  before,  a  symbol  familiar  to  the 
farthest  east,1)  for  lasting  witness  to  the  faithful  that  through 
his  travailing  creation  God  has  appointed  all  things  to  be 
helpful  and  holy  to  man,  has  made  nothing  common  or  un- 
clean. 

There  is  a  large  body  of  further  evidence  proving  the  origin 
of  the  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  from  that  of 
Perseus.  The  names  of  certain  of  the  persons  concerned  in 
both  coincide.  Secondary,  or  later  variations  in  the  place  of 
the  fight  appear  alike  in  both  legends.  For  example,  the 
scene  of  both  is  sometimes  laid  in  Phoenicia,  north  of  Joppa. 
But  concerning  this  we  may  note  that  a  mythologist  of  the 
age  of  Augustus,2  recounting  this  legend,  is  careful  to  ex- 
plain that  the  name  of  Joppa  had  since  been  changed  to 
Phcenice.  The  instance  of  most  value,  however — because  con- 
nected with  a  singular  identity  of  local  names — is  that  ac- 
count which  takes  both  Perseus  and  St.  George  to  the  Nile 
delta.  The  Greek  name  of  Lydda  was  Diospolis.  Now  St. 
Jerome  speaks  strangely  of  Alexandria  as  also  called  Dios- 
polis, and  there  certainly  was  a  Diospolis  (later  Lydda)  near 
Alexandria,  where  " alone  in  Egypt,"  Strabo  tells  us,  "men 
did  not  venerate  the  crocodile,  but  held  it  in  dishonour  as 
most  hateful  of  living  things."  One  of  the  "  Crocodile  towns" 
of  Egypt  was  close  by  this.  Curiously  enough,  considering 
the  locality,  there  was  also  a  "Crocodile-town"  a  short  dis- 
tance north  of  Joppa.  In  Thebes,  too,  the  greater  Diospolis, 
there  was  a  shrine  of  Perseus,  and  near  it  another  KpoKoSeiX^v 
IIoAis.  This  persistent  recurrence  of  the  name  Diospolis 
probably  points  to  Perseus'  original  identity  with  the  sun — 
noblest  birth  of  the  Father  of  Lights.  In  its  Greek  form  that 
name  was,  of  course,  of  comparatively  late  imposition,  but  we 
may  well  conceive  it  to  have  had  reference :'  to  a  local  termi- 
nology and  worship  much  more  ancient.  It  is  not  unreason- 
able to  connect  too  the  Diospolis  of  Cappadocia,  a  region  so 

1  Compare  the  illustrations  on  p.  44  of  Didron's  "  Xconographie 
Chretienne  "  (English  translation,  p.  41). 

2  Conon.  Narr.,  XL. 

3  Compare  the  name  Heliopolis  given  both  to  Baalbeck  and  On. 


134 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


frequently  and  mysteriously  referred  to  as  that  of  St.  George's 
birth. 

Further,  the  stories  both  of  Perseus  and  of  St.  George  are 
curiously  connected  with  the  Persians;  but  this  matter,  to- 
gether with  the  saint's  Cappadocian  nationality,  will  fall  to  be 
considered  in  relation  to  a  figure  in  the  last  of  Carpaccio's 
three  pictures,  which  will  open  up  to  us  the  earliest  history 
and  deepest  meaning  of  the  myth. 

The  stories  of  the  fight  given  by  Greeks  and  Christians  are 
almost  identical.  There  is  scarcely  an  incident  in  it  told  by 
one  set  of  writers  but  occurs  in  the  account  given  by  some 
member  or  members  of  the  other  set,  even  to  the  crowd  of 
distant  spectators  Carpaccio  has  so  dwelt  upon,  and  to  the 
votive  altars  raised  above  the  body  of  the  monster,  with  the 
stream  of  healing  that  flowed  beside  them.  And  while  both 
accounts  say  how  the  saved  nations  rendered  thanks  to  the 
Father  in  heaven,  we  are  told  that  the  heathen  placed,  beside 
His  altar,  altars  to  the  Maiden  Wisdom  and  to  Hermes,  while 
the  Christians  placed  altars  dedicated  to  the  Maiden  Mother 
and  to  George.  Even  Medusa's  head  did  not  come  amiss  to 
the  mediaeval  artist,  but  set  in  the  saint's  hand  became  his 
own,  fit  indication  of  the  death  by  which  he  should  afterwards 
glorify  God.  And  here  we  may  probably  trace  the  original 
error — if,  indeed,  to  be  called  an  error — by  which  the  myth 
concerning  Perseus  was  introduced  into  the  story  of  our  sol- 
dier-saint of  the  East.  From  the  fifth  century  to  the  fifteenth, 
mythologists  nearly  all  give,  and  usually  with  approval,  an  in- 
terpretation of  the  word  "  gorgon  "  which  makes  it  identical 
in  meaning  and  derivation  with  "  George."  When  compara- 
tively learned  persons,  taught  too  in  this  special  subject,  ac- 
cepted such  an  opinion  and  insisted  upon  it,  we  cannot  be 
surprised  if  their  contemporaries,  uneducated,  or  educated 
only  in  the  Christian  mysteries,  took  readily  a  similar  view, 
especially  when  we  consider  the  wild  confusion  in  mediaeval 
minds  concerning  the  spelling  of  classical  names.  Now  just 
as  into  the  legend  of  St.  Hippolytus  there  was  introduced  a 
long  episode  manifestly  derived  from  some  disarranged  and 
misunderstood  series  of  paintings  or  sculptures  concerning 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


135 


the  fate  of  the  Greek  Hippolytus, — and  this  is  by  no  means  a 
singular  example,  the  name  inscribed  on  the  work  of  art  being 
taken  as  evidence  that  it  referred  to  the  only  bearer  of  that 
name  then  thought  of — so,  in  all  probability,  it  came  about 
with  St.  George.  People  at  Lydda  far  on  into  Christian  times 
would  know  vaguely,  and  continue  to  tell  the  story,  how  long 
ago  under  that  familiar  cliff  the  dragon  was  slain  and  the  royal 
maid  released.  Then  some  ruined  fresco  or  vase  painting  of 
the  event  would  exist,  half  forgotten,  with  the  names  of  the 
characters  written  after  Greek  fashion  near  them  in  the  usual 
superbly  errant  caligraphy.  The  Gorgon's  name  could  scarcely 
fail  to  be  prominent  in  a  series  of  pictures  from  Perseus's  his- 
tory, or  in  this  scene  as  an  explanation  of  the  head  in  his  hand. 
A  Christian  pilgrim,  or  hermit,  his  heart  full  of  the  great 
saint,  whose  name  as  "  Triumphant "  filled  the  East,  would, 
when  he  had  spelt  out  the  lettering,  at  once  exclaim,  "Ah, 
here  is  recorded  another  of  my  patron's  victories."  The  prob- 
ability of  this  is  enhanced  by  the  appearance  in  St.  George's 
story  of  names  whose  introduction  seems  to  require  a  similar 
explanation.  But  we  shall  find  that  the  battle  with  the  dragon, 
though  not  reckoned  among  St.  George's  deeds  before  the 
eleventh  or  twelfth  century,  is  entirely  appropriate  to  the 
earliest  sources  of  his  legend. 

One  other  important  parallel  between  Perseus  and  St. 
George  deserves  notice,  though  it  does  not  bear  directly  upon 
these  pictures.  Both  are  distinguished  by  their  burnished 
shields.  The  hero's  was  given  him  by  Athena,  that,  watching 
in  it  the  reflected  figure  of  the  Gorgon, 1  he  might  strike  rightly 
with  his  sickle-sword,  nor  need  to  meet  in  face  the  mortal 
horror  of  her  look.  The  saint's  bright  shield  rallied  once  and 
again  a  breaking  host  of  crusaders,  as  they  seemed  to  see  it 
blaze  in  their  van  under  Antioch  2  wall,  and  by  the  breaches 
of  desecrated  Zion.  But  his  was  a  magic  mirror  ;  work  of 
craftsmen  more  cunning  than  might  obey  the  Queen  of  Air. 
Turned  to  visions  of  terror  and  death,  it  threw  back  by  law 

J  The  allegorising  Platonists  interpret  Medusa  as  a  symbol  of  man's 
sensual  nature.  This  we  shall  find  to  be  Carpaccio's  view  of  the  dragon 
of  St.  George.  2  Acts  xi.  26. 


136 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


of  diviner  optics  an  altered  image — the  crimson  blazon  of  ita 
cross, 1  So  much  for  the  growth  of  the  dragon  legend,  frag- 
ment of  a  most  ancient  faith,  widely  spread  and  variously 
localised,  thus  made  human  by  Greek,  and  passionately  spir- 
itual by  Christian  art. 

We  shall  see  later  that  Perseus  is  not  St.  George's  only 
blood-relation  among  the  powers  of  earlier  belief  ;  but  for 
Englishmen  there  may  be  a  linked  association,  if  more  difficult 
to  trace  through  historic  descent,  yet,  in  its  perfect  harmony, 
even  more  pleasantly  strange.  The  great  heroic  poem  which 
remains  to  us  in  the  tongue  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors — 
intuitive  creation  and  honourable  treasure  for  ever  of  simple 
English  minds — tells  of  a  warrior  whose  names,  like  St. 
George's,  are  "Husbandman"  and  "Glorious,"  whose  crown- 
ing deed  was  done  in  battle  with  the  poisonous  drake.  Even 
a  figure  very  important  in  St.  George's  history — one  we  shall 
meet  in  the  third  of  these  pictures — is  in  this  legend  not  with- 
out its  representative — that  young  kinsman  of  the  Saxon  hero, 
"among  the  faithless"  earls  "faithful  only  he,"  who  holds 
before  the  failing  eyes  of  his  lord  the  long  rusted  helm  and 
golden  standard,  "  wondrous  in  the  grasp,"  and  mystic  ves- 
sels of  ancient  time,  treasure  redeemed  at  last  by  a  brave  man's 
blood  from  the  vaulted  cavern  of  the  "  Twilight  Flyer."  For 
Beowulf  indeed  slays  the  monster,  but  wins  no  princess,  and 
dies  of  the  fiery  venom  that  has  scorched  his  limbs  in  the  con- 
test. Him  there  awaited  such  fires  alone — seen  from  their 
bleak  promontory  afar  over  northern  seas — as  burned  once 
upon  the  ridge  of  (Eta,  his  the  Heraklean  crown  of  poplar 
leaves  only,  blackened  without  by  the  smoke  of  hell,  and 
on  the  inner  side  washed  white  with  the  sweat  of  a  labour- 
er's brow.2    It  is  a  wilder  form  of  the  great  story  told  by 

1  Compare  the  strange  reappearance  of  the  /Eginetan  Athena  as  St. 
John  on  the  Florin.  There  the  arm  that  bore  the  shield  now  with 
pointed  finger  gives  emphasis  and  direction  to  the  word  14  Behold." 

2  There  was  in  his  People's  long  lament  for  Beowulf  one  word  about 
the  hidden  future,  "  when  he  must  go  forth  from  the  body  to  become 
.  .  i  What  to  become  we  shall  not  know,  for  fate  has  struck  out 
just  the  four  letters  that  would  have  told  us. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


137 


eeers  1  who  knew  only  the  terror  of  nature  and  the  daily  toil 
of  men,  and  the  doom  that  is  over  these  for  each  of  us.  The 
royal  maiden  for  ever  set  free,  the  sprinkling  of  pure  water 
unto  eternal  life, — this  only  such  eyes  may  discern  as  by  hap- 
pier fate  have  also  rested  upon  tables  whose  divine  blazon  is 
the  law  of  heaven  ;  such  hearts  alone  conceive,  as,  trained  in 
some  holy  city  of  God,  have  among  the  spirits  of  just  men 
made  perfect,  learned  to  love  His  commandment. 

Such,  then,  was  the  venerable  belief  which  Carpaccio  set 
himself  to  picture  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  George.  How  far  he 
knew  its  wide  reign  and  ancient  descent,  or  how  far,  without 
recognising  these,  he  intuitively  acted  as  the  knowledge  would 
have  led  him,  and  was  conscious  of  lighting  up  his  work  by 
Gentile  learning  and  symbolism,  must  to  us  be  doubtful.  It 
is  not  doubtful  that,  whether  with  open  eyes,  or  in  simple 
obedience  to  the  traditions  of  his  training,  or,  as  is  most 
likely,  loyal  as  well  in  wisdom  as  in  humility,  he  did  so  il- 
lumine it,  and  very  gloriously.  But  painting  this  glory,  he 
paints  with  it  the  peace  that  over  the  king-threatened  cradle 
of  another  Prince  than  Perseus,  was  proclaimed  to  the  heavy- 
laden. 

The  first  picture  on  the  left  hand  as  we  enter  the  chapel 
shows  St.  George  on  horseback,  in  battle  with  the  Dragon. 
Other  artists,  even  Tintoret,2  are  of  opinion  that  the  Saint 
rode  a  white  horse.  The  champion  of  Purity  must,  they 
hold,  have  been  carried  to  victory  by  a  charger  ethereal  and 

1  il  Beowulf  "  was  probably  composed  by  a  poet  nearly  contemporary 
with  Bede.  The  dragon  victory  was  not  yet  added  to  the  glories  of  St. 
George.  Indeed,  Pope  Gelasius,  in  Council,  more  than  a  couple  of  cen- 
turies before,  had  declared  him  to  be  one  of  those  saints  11  whose  names 
are  justly  revered  among  men,  but  whose  deeds  are  known  to  God  only." 
Accordingly  the  Saxon  teacher  invokes  him  somewhat  vaguely  thus :  — 

"  Invicto  mundum  qui  sanguine  temnis 
Infinita  refers,  Georgi  Sancte,  trophaea  !  " 

Yet  even  in  these  words  we  see  a  reverence  similar  to  Carpaccio's  for 
St.  George  as  patron  of  purity.    And  the  deeds  li  known  to  God  alone  " 
were  in  His  good  time  revealed  to  those  to  whom  it  pleased  Him. 
5  In  the  ante-chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 


138 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


splendid  as  a  summer  cloud.  Carpaccio  believed  that  hk 
horse  was  a  dark  brown.  He  knew  that  this  colour  is  gener- 
ally the  mark  of  greatest  strength  and  endurance  ;  he  had  no 
wish  to  paint  here  an  ascetic's  victory  over  the  flesh.  St. 
George's  warring  is  in  the  world,  and  for  it ;  he  is  the  enemy 
of  its  desolation,  the  guardian  of  its  peace  ;  and  all  vital  force 
of  the  lower  Nature  he  shall  have  to  bear  him  into  battle  ; 
submissive  indeed  to  the  spur,  bitted  and  bridled  for  obedi* 
ence,  yet  honourably  decked  with  trappings  whose  studs  and 
bosses  are  fair  carven  faces.  But  though  of  colour  prosaically 
useful,  this  horse  has  a  deeper  kinship  with  the  air.  Many  of 
the  ancient  histories  and  vase-paintings  tell  us  that  Perseus, 
when  he  saved  Andromeda,  was  mounted  on  Pegasus.  Look 
now  here  at  the  mane  and  tail,  swept  still  back  upon  the 
wind,  though  already  the  passionate  onset  has  been  brought 
to  sudden  pause  in  that  crash  of  encounter.  Though  the  flash 
of  an  earthly  fire  be  in  his  eye,  its  force  in  his  limbs — though 
the  clothing  of  his  neck  be  Chthonian  thunder — this  steed  13 
brother,  too,  to  that  one,  born  by  farthest  ocean  wells,  whose 
wild  mane  and  sweeping  wings  stretch  through  the  firmament 
as  light  is  breaking  over  earth.  More  ;  these  masses  of  bil- 
lowy hair  tossed  upon  the  breeze  of  heaven  are  set  here  for  a 
sign  that  this,  though  but  one  of  the  beasts  that  perish,  has 
the  roots  of  his  strong  nature  in  the  power  of  heavenly  life, 
and  is  now  about  His  business  who  is  Lord  of  heaven  and 
Father  of  men.  The  horse  is  thus,  as  we  shall  see,  opposed 
to  certain  other  signs,  meant  for  our  learning,  in  the  dream 
of  horror  round  this  monster's  den.1 

St.  George,  armed  to  his  throat,  sits  firmly  in  the  saddle. 
All  the  skill  gained  in  a  chivalric  youth,  all  the  might  of  a  sol- 
dier's manhood,  he  summons  for  this  strange  tourney,  stooping 
slightly  and  gathering  his  strength  as  he  drives  the  spear- 
point  straight  between  his  enemy's  jaws.  His  face  is  very  fair, 
at  once  delicate  and  powerful,  well-bred  in  the  fullest  bear- 

1  This  cloudlike  effect  is  through  surface  rubbing  perhaps  more 
marked  now  than  Carpaccio  intended,  but  must  always  have  been  most 
noticeable.  It  produces  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  the  Pegasus  ol 
the  Ram  of  Phrixus  on  Greek  vases. 


TEE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


139 


ing  of  the  words  ;  a  Plantagenet  face  in  general  type,  but  much 
refined.  The  lower  lip  is  pressed  upwards,  the  brow  knit,  in 
anger  and  disgust  partly,  but  more  in  care — and  care  not  so 
much  concerning  the  fight's  ending,  as  that  this  thrust  in  it 
shall  now  be  rightly  dealt.  His  hair  flows  in  bright  golden  rip- 
ples, strong  as  those  of  a  great  spring  whose  up-welling  waters 
circle  through  some  clear  pool,  but  it  breaks  at  last  to  float 
over  brow  and  shoulders  in  tendrils  of  living  light.1  Had  Car- 
paccio  been  aware  that  St.  George  and  Perseus  are,  in  this 
deed,  one  ;  had  he  even  held,  as  surely  as  Professor  Miiller 
finds  reason  to  do,  that  at  first  Perseus  was  but  the  sun  in  his 
strength — for  very  name,  being  called  the  "Brightly-Burn- 
ing " — this  glorious  head  could  not  have  been,  more  completely 
than  it  is,  made  the  centre  of  light  in  the  picture.  In  Greek 
works  of  art,  as  a  rule,  Perseus,  when  he  rescues  Andromeda, 
continues  to  wear  the  peaked  Phrygian  cap,  dark  helmet  of 
Hades,2  by  whose  virtue  he  moved,  invisible,  upon  Medusa 
through  coiling  mists  of  dawn.  Only  after  victory  might  he 
unveil  his  brightness.  But  about  George  from  the  first  is  no 
shadow.  Creeping  thing  of  keenest  eye  shall  not  see  that 
splendour  which  is  so  manifest,  nor  with  guile  spring  upon  it 
unaware,  to  its  darkening.  Such  knowledge  alone  for  the 
dragon — dim  sense  as  of  a  horse  with  its  rider,  moving  to  the 
fatal  lair,  hope,  pulseless, — not  of  heart,  but  of  talon  and  maw 
— that  here  is  yet  another  victim,  then  only  between  his  teeth 
that  keen  lance-point,  thrust  far  before  the  Holy  Apparition 
at  whose  rising  the  Power  of  the  Vision  of  Death  waxes  faint 
and  drops  those  terrible  wings  that  bore  under  their  shadow, 
not  healing,  but  wounds  for  men. 

The  spear  pierces  the  base  of  the  dragon's  brain,  its  point 
penetrating  right  through  and  standing  out  at  the  back  of  the 
head  just  above  its  junction  with  the  spine.  The  shaft  breaks 
in  the  shock  between  the  dragon's  jaws.  This  shivering  of  St. 
George's  spear  is  almost  always  emphasized  in  pictures  of  him 
— sometimes,  as  here,  in  act,  oftener  by  position  of  the  splin- 
tered fragments  prominent  in  the  foreground.    This  is  no  tra- 

*  At  his  martyrdom  St.  George  was  hung  up  by  his  hair  to  be  scourged, 
2  Given  by  Hermes  (Chthonios). 


HO 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS, 


dition  of  ancient  art,  but  a  purely  mediseval  incident,  yet  not, 
I  believe,  merely  the  vacant  reproduction  of  a  sight  become 
familiar  to  the  spectator  of  tournaments.  The  spear  was  type 
of  the  strength  of  human  wisdom.  This  checks  the  enemy  in 
his  attack,  subdues  him  partly,  yet  is  shattered,  having  done 
so  much,  and  of  no  help  in  perfecting  the  victory  or  in  reap- 
ing its  reward  of  joy.  But  at  the  Saint's  "  loins,  girt  about 
with  truth,"  there  hangs  his  holier  weapon — the  Sword  of  the 
Spirit,  which  is  the  Word  of  God. 

The  Dragon1  is  bearded  like  a  goat/  and  essentially  a 
thorny  3  creature.  Every  ridge  of  his  body,  wings,  and  head, 
bristles  with  long  spines,  keen,  sword-like,  of  an  earthy  brown 
colour  or  poisonous  green.  But  the  most  truculent-looking 
of  all  is  a  short,  strong,  hooked  one  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
close  to  where  the  spear-point  protrudes.4  These  thorns  are 
partly  the  same  vision — though  seen  with  even  clearer  eyes, 
dreamed  by  a  heart  yet  more  tender — as  Spenser  saw  in  the 
troop  of  urchins  coming  up  with  the  host  of  other  lusts 
against  the  Castle  of  Temperance.  They  are  also  symbolic 
as  weeds  whose  deadly  growth  brings  the  power  of  earth  to 
waste  and  chokes  its  good.  These  our  Lord  of  spiritual  hus- 
bandmen must  for  preliminary  task  destroy.  The  agricult- 
ural process  consequent  on  this  first  step  in  tillage  we  shall 
see  in  the  next  picture,  whose  subject  is  the  triumph  of  the 
ploughshare  sword,  as  the  subject  of  this  one  is  the  triumph 
of  the  pruning-hook  spear.5  To  an  Italian  of  Carpaccio's 
time,  further,  spines — etymologically  connected  in  Greek  and 

1  It  should  be  noticed  that  St.  George's  dragon  is  never  human -headed, 
as  often  St.  Michael's. 

2  So  the  Theban  dragon  on  a  vase,  to  be  afterwards  referred  to. 

3  The  following  are  Lucian's  words  concerning  the  monster  slain  by 
Perseus,  uKa\  rb  fieu  eireiai  irccppiKbs  rals  &Kav9ais  teal  SebiTrSjuepov  t<£ 

4 1  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  this  here.  It  bears  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  crests  of  the  dragon  of  Triptolemus  on  vases.  These  crests 
signify  primarily  the  springing  blade  or  corn.  That,  here,  has  become 
like  iron. 

5  For  "  priming-hooks  "  in  our  version,  the  Vulgate  reads  "ligones" 
—tools  for  preparatory  clearance. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


141 


Latin,  as  in  English,  with  the  backbone — were  an  acknowl- 
edged symbol  of  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  whose  defeat  the  artist 
has  here  set  himself  to  paint.  The  mighty  coiling  tail,  as  of 
a  giant  eel,1  carries  out  the  portraiture.  For  this,  loathsome 
as  the  body  is  full  of  horror,  takes  the  place  of  the  snails 
ranked  by  Spenser  in  line  beside  his  urchins.  Though  the 
monster,  half-rampant,  rises  into  air,  turning  claw  and  spike 
and  tooth  towards  St.  George,  we  are  taught  by  this  grey 
abomination  twisting  in  the  slime  of  death  that  the  threatened 
destruction  is  to  be  dreaded  not  more  for  its  horror  than  for 
its  shame. 

Behind  the  dragon  lie,  naked,  with  dead  faces  turned 
heavenwards,  two  corpses — a  youth's  and  a  girl's,  eaten  away 
from  the  feet  to  the  middle,  the  flesh  hanging  at  the  waist  in 
loathsome  rags  torn  by  the  monster's  teeth.  The  man's  thigh 
and  upper- arm  bones  snapped  across  and  sucked  empty  of 
marrow,  are  turned  to  us  for  special  sign  of  this  destroyer's 
power.  The  face,  foreshortened,  is  drawn  by  death  and  decay 
into  the  ghastly  likeness  of  an  ape's.2  The  girl's  face — seen 
in  profile — is  quiet  and  still  beautiful  ;  her  long  hair  is  heaped 
as  for  a  pillow  under  her  head.  It  does  not  grow  like  St. 
George's,  in  living  ripples,  but  lies  in  fantastic  folds,  that  have 
about  them  a  savour,  not  of  death  only,  but  of  corruption. 
For  all  its  pale  gold  they  at  once  carry  back  one's  mind  to 
Turner's  Pytho,  wrhere  the  arrow  of  Apollo  strikes  him  in  the 
midst,  and,  piercing,  reveals  his  foulness.  Round  her  throat 
cling  a  few  torn  rags,  these  only  remaining  of  the  white  gar- 

1  The  eel  was  Venus'  selected  beast-shape  in  the  a  Flight  of  the  Gods." 
Boccaccio  has  enlarged  upon  the  significance  of  this.  Gen.  Deor.  IV.  68. 
One  learas  from  other  sources  that  a  tail  was  often  symbol  of  sensuality. 

2  In  the  great  Botticelli  of  the  National  Gallery,  known  as  Mars  and 
Venus,  but  almost  identical  with  the  picture  drawn  afterwards  by  Spen- 
ser of  the  Bower  of  Acrasia,  the  sleeping-  youth  wears  an  expression, 
though  less  strongly  marked,  very  similar  to  that  of  this  dead  face  here. 
Such  brutish  paralysis  is  with  scientific  accuracy  made  special  to  the 
male.  It  may  be  noticed  that  the  power  of  venomously  wounding,  ex- 
pressed by  Carpaccio  through  the  dragon's  spines,  is  in  the  Botticelli 
signified  by  the  swarm  of  hornets  issuing  from  the  tree-trunk  by  the 
young  mans  head. 


142 


THE  PLAGE  OF  DRAGONS. 


ment  that  clothed  her  once.  Carpaccio  was  a  diligent  student 
of  ancient  mythology.  Boccaccio's  very  learned  book  on  the 
Gods  was  the  standard  classical  dictionary  of  those  days  in 
Italy.  It  tells  us  how  the  Cyprian  Venus — a  mortal  princess 
in  reality,  Boccaccio  holds — to  cover  her  own  disgrace  led  the 
maidens  of  her  country  to  the  sea-sands,  and,  stripping  them 
there,  tempted  them  to  follow  her  in  shame.  I  suspect  Car- 
paccio had  this  story  in  his  mind,  and  meant  here  to  reveal  in 
true  dragon  aspect  the  Venus  that  once  seemed  fair,  to  show 
by  this  shore  the  fate  of  them  that  follow  her.  It  is  to  be  no- 
ticed that  the  dead  man  is  an  addition  made  by  Carpaccio  to 
the  old  story.  Maidens  of  the  people,  the  legend-writers 
knew,  had  been  sacrificed  before  the  Princess  ;  but  only  he, 
filling  the  tale — like  a  cup  of  his  country's  fairly  fashioned 
glass — full  of  the  wine  of  profitable  teaching,  is  aware  that 
men  have  often  come  to  these  yellow  sands  to  join  there  in 
the  dance  of  death — not  only,  nor  once  for  all,  this  Saint  who 
clasped  hands  with  Victory.  Two  ships  in  the  distance — one 
stranded,  with  rigging  rent  or  fallen,  the  other  moving  pros- 
perously with  full  sails  on  its  course — symbolically  repeat  this 
thought. 1 

Frogs  clamber  about  the  corpse  of  the  man,  lizards  about 
the  woman.  Indeed  for  shells  and  creeping  things  this  place 
where  strangers  lie  slain  and  unburied  would  have  been  to 
the  good  Palissy  a  veritable  and  valued  potter's  field.  But  to 
every  one  of  these  cold  and  scaly  creatures  a  special  symbol- 
ism was  attached  by  the  science — not  unwisely  dreaming — 
of  Carpaccio's  day.  They  are,  each  one,  painted  here  to  am- 
plify and  press  home  the  picture's  teaching.  These  lizards 
are  born  of  a  dead  man's  flesh,  these  snakes  of  his  marrow  : 2 
and  adders,  the  most  venomous,  are  still  only  lizards  ripened 
witheringly  from  loathsome  flower  into  poisonous  fruit.  The 
frogs 3 — symbols,  Pierius  tells  us,  of  imperfection  and  shame- 

1  "  The  many  fail,  the  one  succeeds.' ' 

2  "The  silver  cord  "  not  "  loosed  "  in  God's  peace,  hut  thus  devilishly 
quickened. 

3  Compare  the  "  unclean  spirits  come  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  dragon," 
in  Revelation. 


THE  PLAGE  OF  DRAGONS. 


143 


lessness — are  in  transfigured  form  those  Lycian  husbandmen 
whose  foul  words  mocked  Latona,  whose  feet  defiled  the  wells 
of  water  she  thirsted  for,  as  the  veiled  mother  painfully  jour- 
neyed with  those  two  babes  on  her  arm,  of  whom  one  should 
be  Queen  of  Maidenhood,  the  other,  Lord  of  Light,  and 
Guardian  of  the  "Ways  of  Men.1  This  subtle  association  be- 
tween batrachians  and  love  declining  to  sense  lay  very  deep 
in  the  Italian  mind.  In  (i  Ariadne  Florentina  "  there  are  two 
engravings  from  Botticelli  of  Venus,  as  a  star  floating  through 
heaven  and  as  foam-born  rising  from  the  sea.  Both  pictures 
are  most  subtly  beautiful,  yet  in  the  former  the  lizard  like- 
ness shows  itself  distinctly  in  the  face,  and  a  lizard's  tail  ap- 
pears in  manifest  form  as  pendulous  crest  of  the  chariot,  while 
in  the  latter  not  only  contours  of  profile  and  back,2  but  the 
selected  attitude  of  the  goddess,  bent  and  half  emergent,  with 
hand  resting  not  over  firmly  upon  the  level  shore,  irresistibly 
recall  a  frog. 

In  the  foreground,  between  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  a 
spotted  lizard  labours  at  the  task  set  Sisyphus  in  hell  for  ever. 
Sisyphus,  the  cold-hearted  and  shifty  son  of  iEolus,3  stained 
in  life  by  nameless  lust,  received  his  mocking  doom  of  toil, 
partly  for  his  treachery — winning  this  only  in  the  end, — 
partly  because  he  opposed  the  divine  conception  of  the  iEacid 
race ;  but  above  all,  as  penalty  for  the  attempt  to  elude  the 
fate  of  death  "  that  is  appointed  alike  for  all,"  by  refusal  for 
his  own  body  of  that  "  sowing  in  corruption,"  against  which 
a  deeper  furrow  is  prepared  by  the  last  of  husbandmen  with 
whose  labour  each  of  us  has  on  earth  to  do.  Then,  finding 
that  Carpaccio  has  had  in  his  mind  one  scene  of  Tartarus,  we 
may  believe  the  corpse  in  the  background,  torn  by  carrion- 
birds,  to  be  not  merely  a  meaningless  incident  of  horror,  but 
a  reminiscence  of  enduring  punishment  avenging  upon  Tity- 
us 4  the  insulted  purity  of  Artemis.6 

1  'Ayvievs. 

2  Compare  the  account  of  the  Frog's  hump,  "Ariadne  Florentina,"  p. 93, 

3  Compare  Pindar's  use  of  a\6\os  as  a  fit  adjective  for  vf>et/5os,Nem.  viii.43. 

4  u  Terrae  omniparentis  alumnum." 

5  Or,  as  the  story  is  otherwise  given,  of  the  mother  of  Artemis,  as  tc 
Ihe  case  of  the  Lycian  peasants  above. 


144 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


The  coiled  adder  is  the  familiar  symbol  of  eternity,  here 
meant  either  to  seal  for  the  defeated  their  fate  as  final,  or  to 
hint,,  with  something  of  Turner's  sadness,  that  this  is  a  battle 
not  gained  "  once  for  ever"  and  "for  all,"  but  to  be  fought 
anew  by  every  son  of  man,  while,  for  each,  defeat  shall  be 
deadly,  and  victory  still  most  hard,  though  an  armed  Angel  of 
the  Victory  of  God  be  our  marshal  and  leader  in  the  contest 
A  further  comparison  with  Turner  is  suggested  by  the  horse's 
skull  between  us  and  Saint  George.  A  similar  skeleton  ia 
prominent  in  the  corresponding  part  of  the  foreground  in  the 
"  Jason  "  of  the  Liber  Studiorum.  But  Jason  clambers  to 
victory  on  foot,  allows  no  charger  to  bear  him  in  the  fight. 
Turner,  more  an  antique  1  Hellene  than  a  Christian  prophet, 
had,  as  all  the  greatest  among  the  Greeks,  neither  vision  nor 
hope  of  any  more  perfect  union  between  lower  and  higher 
nature  by  which  that  inferior  creation,  groaning  now  with  us 
in  pain,  should  cease  to  be  type  of  the  mortal  element,  which 
seems  to  shame  our  soul  as  basing  it  in  clay,  and,  with  that 
element,  become  a  temple-platform,  lifting  man's  life  towards 
heaven.2 

With  Turner's  adder,  too,  springing  immortal  from  the  Py- 
thon's wound,  wTe  cannot  but  connect  this  other  adder  of  Car- 
paccio's,  issuing  from  the  white  skull  of  a  great  snake.  Adders, 
according  to  an  old  fancy,  were  born  from  the  jaws  of  their 
living  mother.  Supernatural  horror  attaches  to  this  symbolic 
one,  writhing  out  from  betwreen  the  teeth  of  that  ophidian 
death's-head.  And  the  plague,  not  yet  fully  come  forth,  but 
already  about  its  fathers  business,  venomously  fastens  on  a 
frog,  type  of  the  sinner  whose  degradation  is  but  the  begin- 
ning of  punishment.    So  soon  the  worm  that  dies  not  is  also 

1  Hamlet,  V.  ii.  352. 

2  Pegasus  and  the  immortal  horses  of  Achilles,  born  like  Pegasus  by 
the  ocean  wells,  are  always  to  be  recognized  as  spiritual  creatures,  not— - 
as  St.  George's  horse  here— earthly  creatures,  though  serving  and  mani- 
festing divine  power.  Compare  too  the  fate  of  Argus  (Homer,  Od. 
XVII.)  In  the  great  Greek  philosophies,  similarly,  we  find  a  realm  of 
formless  shadow  eternally  unconquered  by  sacred  order,  offering  a  con- 
trast to  the  modern  systems  which  aim  at  a  unity  to  be  reached,  if  not 
by  reason,  at  least  by  what  one  may  not  inaccurately  call  an  act  of  faitlx 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


145 


apon  him — in  its  fang  Circean  poison  to  make  the  victim  one 
with  his  plague,  as  in  that  terrible  circle  those,  afflicted,  whom 
"vita  bestial  piacque  e  non  humana." 

Two  spiral  shells  1  lie  on  the  sand,  in  shape  related  to  each 
other  as  frog  to  lizard,  or  as  Spenser's  urchins,  spoken  of 
above,  to  his  snails.  One  is  round  and  short,  with  smooth 
viscous-looking  lip,  turned  over,  and  lying  towards  the  spec- 
tator. The  other  is  finer  in  form,  and  of  a  kind  noticeable 
for  its  rows  of  delicate  spines.  But,  since  the  dweller  in  this 
one  died,  the  waves  of  many  a  long-fallen  tide  rolling  on  the 
shingle  have  worn  it  almost  smooth,  as  you  may  see  its  fel- 
lows to-day  by  hundreds  along  Lido  shore.  Now  such  shells 
were,  through  heathen  ages  innumerable  and  over  many 
lands,  holy  things,  because  of  their  whorls  moving  from  left 
to  right2  in  some  mysterious  sympathy,  it  seemed,  with  the 
sun  in  his  daily  course  through  heaven.  Then  as  the  open 
clam-shell  was  special  symbol  of  Venus,  so  these  became  of 
the  Syrian  Venus,  Ashtaroth,  Ephesian  Artemis,  queen,  not  of 
purity  but  of  abundance,  Mylitta.  wis  ttot  iarlv,  the  many 
named  and  widely  worshipped.3  In  Syrian  figures  still  ex- 
isting she  bears  just  such  a  shell  in  her  hand.  Later  WTiters, 
with  whom  the  source  of  this  symbolism  wTas  forgotten, 
accounted  for  it,  partly  by  imaginative  instinct,  partly  by 
fanciful  invention  concerning  the  nature  and  way  of  life  of 
these  creatures.  But  there  is  here  yet  a  further  reference, 
since  from  such  shells  along  the  Syrian  coast  was  crushed  out, 
sea-purple  and  scarlet,  the  juice  of  the  Tyrian  dye.  And  the 
power  of  sensual  delight  throned  in  the  chief  places  of  each 
merchant  city,  decked  her  " stately  bed"  with  coverings 
whose  tincture  was  the  stain  of  that  baptism.4   The  shells  are 

1  Ovid  associates  shells  with  the  enemy  of  Andromeda,  but  regarding 
it  as  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  monster,  plants  them  on  its  back — 

"terga  cavis  super  obsita  conchis."—  Ov.  Met.,  IV.  724. 

2  In  India,  for  the  same  reason,  one  of  the  leading  marks  of  the  Bud- 
dha's perfection  was  his  hair,  thus  spiral. 

3  Compare  the  curious  tale  about  the  Echeneis.  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat,, 
IX.  25.    "  De  echeneide  ej usque  natura  mirabili." 

4  The  purple  of  Lydda  was  famous.  Compare  Fors  Clavigera,  April, 
1876,  p.  2.  and  Deucalion,  §  39. 


146 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


empty  now,  devoured — lizards  on  land  or  sea- shore  are  ever 
to  such  "  inimicissimum  genus "  1 — or  wasted  in  the  deep, 
For  the  ripples  3  that  have  thrown  and  left  them  on  the  sand 
are  a  type  of  the  lusts  of  men,  that  leap  up  from  the  abyss, 
surge  over  the  shore  of  life,  and  fall  in  swift  ebb,  leaving 
desolation  behind. 

Near  the  coiled  adder  is  planted  a  withered  human  head. 
The  sinews  and  skin  of  the  neck  spread,  and  clasp  the 
ground — as  a  zoophyte  does  its  rock — in  hideous  mimicry  of 
an  old  tree's  knotted  roots.  Two  feet  and  legs,  torn  off  by 
the  knee,  lean  on  this  head,  one  against  the  brow  and  the 
other  behind.  The  scalp  is  bare  and  withered.  These  things 
catch  one's  eye  on  the  first  glance  at  the  picture,  and  though 
so  painful  are  made  thus  prominent  as  giving  the  key  to  a 
large  part  of  its  symbolism.  Later  Platonists — and  among 
them  those  of  the  fifteenth  century — developed  from  certain 
texts  in  the  Timseus 3  a  doctrine  concerning  the  mystical 
meaning  of  hair,  which  coincides  with  its  significance  to  the 
vision  of  early  (pre-Platonic)  Greeks.  As  a  tree  has  its  roots 
in  earth,  and  set  thus,  must  patiently  abide,  bearing  such 
fruit  as  the  laws  of  nature  may  appoint,  so  man,  being  of 
other  family — these  dreamers  belonged  to  a  very  "pre-scien- 
tific  epoch  " — has  his  roots  in  heaven,  and  has  the  power  of 
moving  to  and  fro  over  the  earth  for  service  to  the  Law  of 
Heaven,  and  as  sign  of  his  free  descent.  Of  these  diviner 
roots  the  hair  is  visible  type.  Plato  tells  us,4  that  of  innocent, 
light-hearted  men,  £  4  whose  thoughts  were  turned  heaven- 
ward," but  who  "imagined  in  their  simplicity  that  the  clearest 
demonstration  of  things  above  was  to  be  obtained  by  sight " 
the  race  of  birds  had  being,  by  change  of  external  shape 
into  due  harmony  with  the  soul  ("  ^reppvQfii&To") — such 
persons  growing  feathers  instead  of   hair.5    We  have  in 

1  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat.,  VIII.  39. 

2 Under  the  name  of  Salacia  and  Venilia.  See  St.  August.,  Civ.  Dei, 
VII.  22. 

3 Plato,  Tim.,  75,  76.  4 Ibid.  91,  D.  E. 

5  The  most  devoid  of  wisdom  were  stretched  on  earth,  becoming  foot 
less  and  creeping  things,  or  sunk  as  fish  in  the  sea.    So,  we  saw  Venua 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


147 


Dante,1  too,  an  inversion  of  tree  nature  parallel  to  that  of  the 
head  here.  The  tree,  with  roots  in  air,  whose  sweet  fruit  is, 
in  Purgatory,  alternately,  to  gluttonous  souls,  temptation,  and 
purifying  punishment — watered,  Landino  interprets,  by  the 
descending  spray  of  Lethe — signifies  that  these  souls  have 
forgotten  the  source  and  limits  of  earthly  pleasure,  seeking 
vainly  in  it  satisfaction  for  the  hungry  and  immortal  spirit. 
So  here,  this  blackened  head  of  the  sensual  sinner  is  rooted  to 
earth,  the  sign  of  strength  drawn  from  above  is  stripped  from 
off  it,  and  beside  it  on  the  sand  are  laid,  as  in  hideous  mock- 
ery, the  feet  that  might  have  been  beautiful  upon  the  moun- 
tains. Think  of  the  woman's  body  beyond,  and  then  of  this 
head — " instead  of  a  girdle,  a  rent;  and  instead  of  well-set 
hair,  baldness."  The  worm's  brethren,  the  Dragon's  elect, 
wear  such  shameful  tonsure,  unencircled  by  the  symbolic 
crown  ;  prodigal  of  life,  "risurgeranno,"  from  no  quiet  grave, 
but  from  this  haunt  of  horror,  "co  crin  mozzi  "  2 — in  piteous 
witness  of  wealth  ruinously  cast  away.  Then  compare,  in 
light  of  the  quotation  from  Plato  above,  the  dragon's  thorny 
plumage  ;  compare,  too,  the  charger's  mane  and  tail,  and  the 
rippling  glory  that  crowns  St.  George.  It  is  worth  while,  too, 
to  have  in  mind  the  words  of  the  " black  cherub"  that  had 
overheard  the  treacherous  counsel  of  Guido  de  Montefeltro. 
Prom  the  moment  it  was  uttered,  to  that  of  the  sinner's 
death,  the  evil  spirit  says,  c<stato  gli  sono  a  crini"  3 — lord  of 
his  fate.  Further,  in  a  Venetian  series  of  engravings  illus- 
trating Dante  (published  1491),  the  firebreathings  of  the 
Dragon  on  Cacus'  shoulders  transform  themselves  into  the 
Centaur's  femininely  flowing  hair,  to  signify  the  inspiration  of 
his  forceful  fraud.  This  "  power  on  his  head"  he  has  because 
of  such  an  angel.4  When  we  consider  the  Princess  we  shall 
find  this  symbolism  yet  further  carried,  but  just  now  have  to 
notice  how  the  closely  connected  franchise  of  graceful  motion. 

chosen  transmigration  was  into  the  form  of  an  eel — other  authorities 
Bay,  of  a  fish. 

1  Dante,  Purg.,  XXII.,  XXIII. 

''Ibid.  Inf.,  VII.  57.    Pnrg.,  XXII.  46.  3  Ibid.  Inf.,  XXVIL 

4  Ibid.  XXV. 


148  THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 

lost  to  those  dishonoured  ones,  is  marked  by  the  most  care 
fully -painted  bones  lying  on  the  left— a  thigh-bone  dislocated 
from  that  of  the  hip,  and  then  thrust  through  it.  Curiously, 
too,  such  dislocation  would  in  life  produce  a  hump,  mimick- 
ing fairly  enough  in  helpless  distortion  that  one  to  which  the 
frog's  leaping  power  is  due. 1 

Centrally  in  the  foreground  is  set  the  skull,  perhaps  of  an 
ape,  but  more  probably  of  an  ape-like  man,  "with  forehead 
villanous  low."  This  lies  so  that  its  eye-socket  looks  out,  as 
it  were,  through  the  empty  eyehole  of  a  sheep's  skull  beside 
it.  When  man's  vision  has  become  ovine  merely,  it  shall  at 
last,  even  of  grass,  see  only  such  bitter  and  dangerous  growth 
as  our  husbandman  must  reap  with  a  spear  from  a  dragon's 
wing. 

The  remaining  minor  words  of  this  poem  in  a  forgotten 
tongue  I  cannot  definitely  interpret.  The  single  skull  with 
jaw-bone  broken  off,  lying  under  the  dragon's  belly,  falls  to 
be  mentioned  afterwards.  The  ghastly  heap  of  them,  crowned 
by  a  human  mummy,  withered  and  brown,2  beside  the  coil  of 
the  dragon's  tail,  seem  meant  merely  to  add  general  emphasis 
to  the  whole.  The  mummy  (and  not  this  alone  in  the  picture) 
may  be  compared  with  Spenser's  description  of  the  Captain 
of  the  Army  of  Lusts  : — 

"  His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a  rake, 
And  skin  all  withered  like  a  dryed  rook, 
Thereto  as  cold  and  dreary  as  a  snake. 

#  *  *  *  * 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  helmet  light, 
Made  of  a  dead  man's  skull,  that  seemed  a  ghastly  sight." 

The  row  of  five  palm  trees  behind  the  dragon's  head  per- 
haps refers  to  the  kinds  of  temptation  over  which  Victory 
must  be  gained,  and  may  thus  be  illustrated  by  the  five  troops 
that  in  Spenser  assail  the  several  senses,  or  beside  Chaucer's 
five  fingers  of  the  hand  of  lust.    It  may  be  observed  that 

'Ariadne  Florentina,'  Lect.  III.,  p.  93. 
2  The  venom  of  the  stellio,  a  spotted  species  of  lizard,  emblem  of 
shamelessness,  was  held  to  cause  blackening  of  the  face. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DBAGONS. 


149 


Pliny  speaks  of  the  Essenes — preceders  of  the  Christian  Her- 
mits— who  had  given  up  the  world  and  its  joys  as  "  gens 
socia  palmarum."  1 

Behind  the  dragon,  in  the  far  background,  is  a  great  city. 
Its  walls  and  towers  are  crowded  by  anxious  spectators  of  the 
battle.  There  stands  in  it,  on  a  lofty  pedestal,  the  equestrian 
statue  of  an  emperor  on  horseback,  perhaps  placed  there  by 
Carpaccio  for  sign  of  Alexandria,  perhaps  merely  from  a  Vene- 
tian's pride  and  joy  in  the  great  figure  of  Colleone  recently 
set  up  in  his  city.  In  the  background  of  the  opposite  (St. 
George's)  side  of  the  picture  rises  a  precipitous  hill,  crowned 
by  a  church.  The  cliffs  are  waveworn,  an  arm  of  the  sea 
passing  between  them  and  the  city. 

Of  these  hieroglyphics,  only  the  figure  of  the  princess  now 
remains  for  our  reading.  The  expression  on  her  face,  ineffa- 
ble by  descriptive  words,2  is  translated  into  more  tangible 
symbols  by  the  gesture  of  her  hands  and  arms.  These  repeat, 
with  added  grace  and  infinitely  deepened  meaning,  the  move- 
ment of  maidens  wTho  encourage  Theseus  or  Cadmus  in  their 
battle  with  monsters  on  many  a  Greek  vase.  They  have  been 
clasped  in  agony  and  prayer,  but  are  now  parting — still  just 
a  little  doubtfully — into  a  gesture  of  joyous  gratitude  to  this 
captain  of  the  army  of  salvation  and  to  the  captain's  Captain. 
Raphael 3  has  painted  her  running  from  the  scene  of  battle. 
Even  with  Tintoret 4  she  turns  away  for  flight ;  and  if  her 
hands  are  raised  to  heaven,  and  her  knees  fall  to  the  earth,  it 
is  more  that  she  stumbles  in  a  woman's  weakness,  than  that 
she  abides  in  faith  or  sweet  self-surrender.  Tintoret  sees  the 
scene  as  in  the  first  place  a  matter  of  fact,  and  paints  accord- 

1  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat.,  V.  17. 

2  Suppose  Caliban  had  conquered  Prospero,  and  fettered  him  in  a  fig- 
tree  or  elsewhere;  that  Miranda,  after  watching  the  struggle  from  the 
cave,  had  seen  him  coming  triumphantly  to  seize  her;  and  that  the  first 
appearance  of  Ferdinand  is,  just  at  that  moment,  to  her  rescue.  If  we 
conceive  how  she  would  have  looked  then,  it  may  give  some  parallel  to 
the  expression  on  the  princess's  face  in  this  picture,  but  without  a  cer- 
tain light  of  patient  devotion  here  well  marked. 

3  Louvre.  4  National  Gallery. 


150 


THE  PLAGE  OF  DRAGONS. 


ingly,  following  his  judgment  of  girl  nature.1  Carpaccio 
sees  it  as  above  all  things  a  matter  of  faith,  and  paints  myth- 
ically for  our  teaching.  Indeed,  doing  this,  he  repeats  the 
old  legend  with  more  literal  accuracy.  The  princess  was 
offered  as  a  sacrifice  for  her  people.  If  not  willing,  she  was 
at  least  submissive  ;  nor  for  herself  did  she  dream  of  flight. 
No  chains  in  the  rock  were  required  for  the  Christian  Androm- 
eda. 

"And  the  king  said,  .  .  .  6  Daughter,  I  would  you 
had  died  long  ago  rather  than  that  I  should  lose  you  thus/ 
And  she  fell  at  his  feet,  asking  of  him  a  father's  blessing. 
And  when  he  had  blessed  her  once  and  again,  with  tears  she 
went  her  way  to  the  shore.  Now  St.  George  chanced  to  pass 
by  that  place,  and  he  saw  her,  and  asked  why  she  wept.  But 
she  answered,  '  Good  youth,  mount  quickly  and  flee  away, 
that  you  die  not  here  shamefully  with  me.'  Then  St.  George 
said,  '  Fear  not,  maiden,  but  tell  me  what  it  is  you  wait  for 
here,  and  all  the  people  stand  far  off  beholding.'  And  she 
said,  '  I  see,  good  youth,  how  great  of  heart  you  are ;  but 
why  do  you  wish  to  die  with  me  ? *.  And  St.  George  answered, 
'  Maiden,  do  not  fear ;  I  go  not  hence  till  you  tell  me  why 
you  weep.'  And  when  she  had  told  him  all,  he  answered, 
6  Maiden,  have  no  fear,  for  in  the  name  of  Christ  will  I  save 
you/  And  she  said,  c  Good  soldier, — lest  you  perish  with 
me  !  For  that  I  perish  alone  is  enough,  and  you  could  not 
save  me  ;  you  would  perish  with  me/  Now  while  she  spoke 
the  dragon  raised  his  head  from  the  waters.  And  the  maiden 
cried  out,  all  trembling,  6  Flee,  good  my  lord,  flee  away  swift- 
ly/ "  2  But  our  "very  loyal  chevalier  of  the  faith "  saw  cause 
to  disobey  the  lady. 

Yet  Carpaccio  means  to  do  much  more  than  just  repeat 
this  story.  His  princess,  (it  is  impossible,  without  undue 
dividing  of  its  substance,  to  put  into  logical  words  the  truth 

1  And  perhaps  from  a  certain  ascetic  feeling,  a  sense  growing  with  the 
growing  license  of  Venice,  that  the  soul  must  rather  escape  from  thia 
monster  by  flight,  than  hope  to  see  it  subdued  and  made  serviceable, 
(vide  p.  14). 

2  Legenda  Aurea. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAQONS. 


151 


here  "  embodied  in  a  tale,") — but  this  princess  represents  the 
soul  of  man.  And  therefore  she  wears  a  coronet  of  seven 
gems,  for  the  seven  virtues  ;  and  of  these,  the  midmost  that 
crowns  her  forehead  is  shaped  into  the  figure  of  a  cross,  sig- 
nifying faith,  the  saving  virtue.1  We  shall  see  that  in  the 
picture  of  Gethsemane  also,  Carpaccio  makes  the  representa- 
tive of  faith  central.  Without  faith,  men  indeed  may  shun 
the  deepest  abyss,  yet  cannot  attain  the  glory  of  heavenly 
hope  and  love.  Dante  saw  how  such  men — even  the  best — 
may  not  know  the  joy  that  is  perfect.  Moving  in  the  divided 
splendour  merely  of  under  earth,  on  sward  wliose  "  fresh  verd- 
ure," eternally  changeless,  expects  neither  in  patient  waiting 
nor  in  sacred  hope  the  early  and  the  latter  rain,2  "  Sembianza 
avevan  ne  trista  ne  lieta." 

This  maiden,  then,  is  an  incarnation  of  spiritual  life,  mysti- 
cally crowned  with  all  the  virtues.  But  their  diviner  meaning 
is  yet  unrevealed,  and  following  the  one  legible  command  she 
goes  down  to  such  a  death  for  her  people,  vainly.  Only  by 
help  of  the  hero  who  slays  monstrous  births  of  nature,  to  sow 
and  tend  in  its  organic  growth  the  wholesome  plant  of  civil 
life,  may  she  enter  into  that  liberty  with  which  Christ  makes 
His  people  free. 

The  coronet  of  the  princess  is  clasped  about  a  close  red  cap 
which  hides  her  hair.  Its  tresses  are  not  yet  cast  loose,  inas- 
much as,  till  the  dragon  be  subdued,  heavenly  life  is  not 
secure  for  the  soul,  nor  its  marriage  with  the  great  Bride- 
groom complete.  In  corners  even  of  Western  Europe  to  this 
day,  a  maiden's  hair  is  jealously  covered  till  her  wedding. 
Compare  now  this  head  with  that  of  St.  George.  Carpaccio, 

1  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  putting  logically  the  apostle's  "  substance  of 
tilings  hoped  for,"  defines  faith  as  "a  habit  of  mind  by  which  eternal 
life  is  begun  in  us  "  (Summa  II.  III.  IV.  1). 

2  Epistle  of  James,  v. ,  Dante  selects  (and  Carpaccio  follows  him)  as 
neavenlj  judge  of  a  right  hope  that  apostle  who  reminds  his  reader  how 
man's  life  is  even  as  a  vapour  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time  and  then 
vanisheth  away.  For  the  connection — geologically  historic — of  grass  and 
showers  with  true  human  life,  compare  Genesis  ii.  5 — 8,  where  the 
right  translation  is,  "And  no  plant  of  the  field  was  yet  in  the  earth, 
and  no  herb  yet  sprung  up  or  grown,"  etc. 


152 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


painting  a  divine  service  of  mute  prayer  and  acted  prophecy, 
has  followed  St.  Paul's  law  concerning  vestments.  But  wa 
shall  see  how,  when  prayer  is  answered  and  prophecy  fulfilled, 
the  long  hair — "  a  glory  to  her,"  and  given  by  Nature  for  a 
veil — is  sufficient  covering  upon  the  maiden's  head,  bent  in  a 
more  mystic  rite. 

From  the  cap  hangs  a  long  scarf-like  veil.  It  is  twisted 
once  about  the  princess's  left  arm,  and  then  floats  in  the  air. 
The  effect  of  this  veil  strikes  one  on  the  first  glance  at  the 
picture.  It  gives  force  to  the  impression  of  natural  fear,  yet 
strangely,  in  light  fold,  adds  a  secret  sense  of  security,  as 
though  the  gauze  were  some  sacred  £egis.  And  such  indeed  it 
is,  nor  seen  first  by  Carpaccio,  though  probably  his  intuitive 
invention  here.  There  is  a  Greek  vase-picture  1  of  Cadmus  at- 
tacking a  dragon,  Ares-begotten,  that  guarded  the  sacred  spring 
of  the  warrior-god.  That  fight  was  thus  for  the  same  holy 
element  whose  symbolic  sprinkling  is  the  end  of  this  one  here. 
A  maiden  anxiously  watches  the  event ;  her  gesture  resembles 
the  princess's  ;  her  arm  is  similarly  shielded  by  a  fold  of  her 
mantle.  But  we  have  a  parallel  at  once  more  familiar  and 
more  instructively  perfect  than  this.  Cadmus  had  a  daughter, 
to  whom  was  given  power  upon  the  sea,  because  in  utmost 
need  she  had  trusted  herself  to  the  mercy  of  its  billows. 
Lady  of  its  foam,  in  hours  when  "the  blackening  wave  is 
edged  with  white,"  she  is  a  holier  and  more  helpful  Aphrodite, 
— a  "  water-sprite  "  whose  voice  foretells  that  not  "wreck'* 
but  salvation  "  is  nigh."  In  the  last  and  mosit  terrible  crisis 
of  that  long  battle  with  the  Power  of  Ocean,  who  denied  him 
a  return  to  his  Fatherland,  Ulysses  would  have  perished  in  the 
waters  without  the  veil  of  Leucothea  wrapped  about  his  breast 
as  divine  life-buoy.  And  that  veil,  the  44  immortal  "  kotJSc/xi/ov,2 
was  just  such  a  scarf  attached  to  the  head-dress  as  this  one  o- 

1  Inghiranii  gives  tliis  (No.  239). 

2  In  pursuance  of  the  same  symbolism,  Troy  walls  were  once  literally 
called  44  salvation,1 '  this  word,  with,  for  certain  historical  reasons,  the 
added  epithet  of  ' 4  holy,"  being  applied  to  them.  With  the  Kpfitiepva 
Penelope  shielded  her  "  tender  "  cheeks  in  presence  of  the  suitors. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DRAGONS. 


153 


the  princess's  here1  Curiously,  too,  we  shall  see  that  Leuco- 
thea  (at  first  called  Ino),  of  Thebes'  and  Cadmus'  line,  daughter 
of  Harmonia,  is  closely  connected  with  certain  sources  of  the 
story  of  St.  George.2  But  we  have  first  to  consider  the  drag- 
on's service. 

1  Vide  Nitsch  ad  Od.,  V.  346. 

2  Xtyovri  8'  iu  koX  QaXaara-a 
.     .     .     $(qtov  &<pQlTOV 

9lva?  rsraxOat  rhi>  '6hov  cifxpl  xpwav. 

(Phid.  01.,  H.  51.) 


The  Editor  had  hope  of  publishing  this  book  a  full  year 
ago.  He  now  in  all  humiiity,  yet  not  in  uncertainty,  can  sum 
the  causes  of  its  delay,  both  with  respect  to  his  friend  and  to 
himself,  in  the  words  of  St.  Paul, 

Brantwood, 

6th  March,  1879. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIIL 


SANOTUS,  SANCTUS,  SANCTUS. 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  MOSAICS  IN  THE  BAPTISTERY  OF 
ST.  MARK'S. 

"  The  whole  edifice  is  to  be  regarded  less  as  a  temple  wherein  to  pray 
than  as  itself  a  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  a  vast  illuminated  missal, 
bound  with  alabaster  instead  of  parchment.  " 

Stones  of  Venice,  ii.  4,  46. 

"  We  must  take  some  pains,  therefore,  when  we  enter  St.  Mark's,  to 
read  all  that  is  inscribed,  or  we  shall  not  penetrate  into  the  feeling 
either  of  the  builder  or  of  his  times.  *         Stones  of  Venice,  ii.  4,  64. 


The  following  catalogue  of  the  mosaics  of  the  Baptistery  of 
St.  Mark's  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1882,  after  a  first  visit 
to  Venice,  and  was  then  sent  to  Mr.  Ruskin  as  a  contribution  to 
his  collected  records  of  the  church.  It  was  not  intended  for 
publication,  but  merely  as  notes  or  material  for  which  he 
might  possibly  find  some  use  ;  and  if  the  reader  in  Venice 
will  further  remember  that  it  is  the  work  of  no  artist  or  anti- 
quarian, but  of  a  traveller  on  his  holiday,  he  will,  it  is  hoped, 
be  the  more  ready  to  pardon  errors  and  omissions  which  his 
own  observation  can  correct  and  supply.  The  mosaics  of  the 
Baptistery  are,  of  course,  only  a  small  portion  of  those  to  be 
seen  throughout  the  church,  but  that  portion  is  one  complete 
in  itself,  and  more  than  enough  to  illustrate  the  vast  amount 
of  thought  contained  in  the  scripture  legible  on  the  walls  of 
St.  Mark's  by  every  comer  who  is  desirous  of  taking  any  real 
interest  in  the  building. 

The  reader,  then,  who  proposes  to  make  use  of  the  present 
guide  can,  by  reference  to  the  following  list,  see  at  a  glance 


158 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


the  subjects  with  which  these  mosaics  deal,  and  the  order  in 
which  his  attention  will  be  directed  to  them.  They  are,  in 
addition  to  the  altar-piece,  these  :— 

I.  The  Life  of  St.  John  the  Baptist 
II.  The  Infancy  of  Christ, 
in.  St.  Nicholas. 
IV.  The  Four  Evangelists. 
V.  The  Four  Saints. 
VI.  The  Greek  Fathers. 
VII.  The  Latin  Fathers. 
VIII.  Christ  and  the  Prophets. 
IX.  Christ  and  the  Apostles. 
X.  Christ  and  the  Angels. 

The  subject  of  the  altar-piece  is  the  Crucifixion.  In  the 
centre  is  Christ  on  the  cross,  the  letters  IC.  XC.  on  either 
side.  Over  the  cross  are  twTo  angels,  veiling  their  faces  with 
their  robes  ;  at  its  foot  lies  a  skull, — Golgotha, — upon  which 
falls  the  blood  from  Christ's  feet,  whilst  on  each  side  of  the 
Saviour  are  five  figures,  those  at  the  extreme  ends  of  the  mo- 
saic being  a  doge  and  dogaress,  probably  the  donors  of  the 
mosaic. 

To  the  left  is  St.  Mark— S  TlJKCVS— with  an  open  book 
in  his  hand,  showing  the  words,  "  In  illo  tempore 
Maria  mater  .  .  .  /'  "In  that  hour  Mary  his 
mother  .  .  .  ."  She  stands  next  the  cross,  with 
her  hands  clasped  in  grief ;  above  her  are  the 
letters  M — P  ®  V— ju^P  @cov— Mother  of  God. 
To  the  right  of  the  cross  is  St.  John  the  Evangelist — S. 
IOHES  EVG— his  face  covered  with  his  hands,  receiving 
charge  of  the  Virgin:  "When  Jesus,  therefore,  saw  his 
mother,  and  the  disciple  standing  by,  whom  he  loved,  he  saith 
unto  his  mother,  Woman,  behold  thy  son  !  Then  saith  he  to 
the  disciple,  Behold  thy  mother !  And  from  that  hour  the 
disciple  took  her  unto  his  own  home  "  (St.  John  xix.  26,  27). 

Lastly,  next  St.  John  the  Evangelist  is  St.  John  the  Baptist, 
bearing  a  scroll,  on  which  are  the  words  : 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VI1L 


159 


"  ECCB  AGNUS  DEI  ECE  . . . .  » 

14  Ecce  agnus  Dei,  ecce  qui  tollit  peccatum  mundi." 

"  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  which  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world  n 
(St.  John  i.  29). 1 

I.  The  Life  of  St.  John  the  Baptist. — Leaving  the  altar  and 
turning  to  the  right,  we  have  the  first  mosaic  in  the  series 
which  gives  the  life  of  the  Baptist,  and  consists  in  all  of  ten 
pictures.    (See  plan,  p.  160.) 

a.  His  birth  is  announced. 

b.  He  is  born  and  named. 

c.  He  is  led  into  the  desert. 

d.  He  receives  a  cloak  from  an  angel. 

e.  He  preaches  to  the  people. 

f.  He  answers  the  Pharisees. 

g.  He  baptizes  Christ. 

h.  He  is  condemned  to  death. 

i.  He  is  beheaded. 
j.  He  is  buried. 

a.  His  birth  is  announced. — This  mosaic  has  three  divisions. 

1.  To  the  left  is  Zacharias  at  the  altar,  with  the  angel  ap- 
pearing to  him.  He  swings  a  censer,  burning  incense  "  in 
the  order  of  his  course."  He  has  heard  the  angel's  message, 
for  his  look  and  gesture  show  clearly  that  he  is  already  struck 
dumb.    Above  are  the  words  : 

INGRESSO  ZACHARIA  TEPLV  DNI 
J1PJELVIT  EI  AGLS  DNI  STAS 
A  DEXTRIS  ALTARIS 
"  Ingresso  Zacharia  templum  domini  aparuit  ei  angel  us  domini  stans 
a  dextris  altaris." 

"  When  Zacharias  had  entered  the  temple  of  the  Lord  there  appeared 
to  him  an  angel  of  the  Lord  standing  on  the  right  side  of  the  altar  " 
(St.  Luke  i.  9-11). 

1  The  scriptural  references  in  this  appendix  are,  first,  to  the  Vulgate, 
which  most  of  the  legends  in  the  Baptistery  follow,  and,  secondly,  to 
the  English  version  of  the  Bible.  The  visitor  will  also  notice  that 
throughout  the  chapel  the  scrolls  are  constantly  treated  by  the  mosaic- 
ists  literally  as  scrolls,  the  text  being  cut  short  even  in  the  middle  of  a 
word  by  the  curl  of  the  supposed  parchment. 


160 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 
PLAN  OF  THE  BAPTISTERY. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  Yin. 


161 


2.  "And  the  people  waited  for  Zacharias,  and  marvelled 
that  he  tarried  so  long  in  the  temple.  And  when  he  came 
out,  he  could  not  speak  unto  them :  and  they  perceived  that 
he  had  seen  a  vision  in  the  temple  :  for  he  beckoned  unto 
them,  and  remained  speechless  "  (St.  Luke  i.  21,  22), 

•g*  H.  S.  ZAHARIAS  EXIT 
TUTUS  AD  PPLM 

"  Hie  sanctus  Zacharias  exit  tutus  ad  populum." 

4 *  Here  saint  Zacharias  comes  out  safe  to  the  people." 

3.  "  He  departed  to  his  own  house "  (St.  Luke  i.  23). 
Zacharias  embracing  his  wife  Elizabeth. 

S7  Z/H A 
BIAS.  S.  ELI 
SABETA 

6.  He  is  born  and  named  (opposite  the  door  into  the  church). 
— Zacharias  is  seated  to  the  left 1  of  the  picture,  and  has  a 
book  or  "  writing  table  "  in  front  of  him,  in  which 
he  has  written  u  Johannes  est  nomen  ejus" — 
"  His  name  is  John  "  (Luke  i.  63).  To  the  right 
an  aged  woman,  Elizabeth,  points  to  the  child 
inquiringly,  "  How  would  you  have  him  called  ?  " ; 
further  to  the  right,  another  and  younger  woman  kneels,  hold- 
ing out  the  child  to  his  father.  At  the  back  a  servant  with  a 
basket  in  her  arms  looks  on.  Unlike  the  other  two  women, 
she  has  no  glory  about  her  head.  Above  is  a  tablet  in- 
scribed : — 

NATIVITAS 
SANCTI  JOHANNIS 
BAPTISTS 

and  below  another  tablet,  with  the  date  and  artist's  name — 

FRAN' TURESSIVS  V.F.  MDCXXVIIL 

1  By  "  right "  and  * 4  left "  in  this  appendix  is  meant  always  th©  right 
and  left  hand  of  the  spectator  as  he  faces  his  subject. 


162 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


Turning  now  to  the  west  wall,  and  standing  with  the  altai 
behind  us,  we  have  the  next  three  mosaics  of  the  series, 
thus — 


VAULT  OF  ROOF 


1  INTO  ZENO  CHAPEU 

c.  He  is  led  into  the  desert. — The  words  of  the  legends  are  : — ■ 

■J*  QVOM  JSTGELV  SEDOVXAT  S.  IOHAN. 
I.  DESERTUM. 

"  Quomodo  angelus  seduxit  (?)  sanctum  Johannem 

in  desertum." 
"  How  an  angel  led  away  saint  John  into  the  desert." 

This  is  not  biblical.  And  the  child  grew  and  waxed  strong 
in  spirit,  and  was  in  the  deserts  till  the  day  of  his  showing  unto 
Israel"  is  all  St.  Luke  (i.  80)  says.  Here  the  infant  Baptist  is 
being  led  by  an  angel,  who  points  onward  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  holds  that  of  the  child,  who,  so  far  from  being 
"strong  in  spirit,"  looks  troubled,  and  has  one  hand  placed 
on  his  heart  in  evident  fear.  His  other  hand,  in  the  grasp  of 
the  angel's,  does  not  in  any  way  hold  it,  but  is  held  by  it ;  he 
is  literally  being  led  into  the  desert  somewhat  against  his  will. 
The  word  sedouaxat  (?  mediaeval  for  seduxit)  may  here  well 
have  this  meaning  of  persuasive  leading.  It  should  also  be 
noted  that  the  child  and  his  guide  are  already  far  on  their 
way  :  they  have  left  all  vegetation  behind  them  ;  only  a  stony 
rock  and  rough  ground,  with  one  or  two  tufts  of  grass  and  a 
leafless  tree,  are  visible. 

d.  He  receives  a  cloak  from  an  angel — This  is  also  not  bibli* 
cal.    The  words  above  the  mosaic  are — 

HC  AGELUS  REPRESETAT  VESTE  BTO  IOHI 

u  Hie  angelus  representat  vestem  be  to  Johanni." 

"  Here  the  angel  gives  (back  ?)  a  garment  to  the  blessed  John." 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIIL 


163 


John  wears  his  cloak  of  camel's  hair,  and  holds  in  one 
MT   hand  a  scroll,  on  which  is  written  an  abbreviation 
^?   of  the  Greek  " ^Tavolire  " — "  Repent  ye." 
E 

e.  He  preaches  to  the  people. 

HIC  PREDICATE 
"Here  lie  preaches"  [or  "predicts  the  Christ"]. 

The  Baptist  is  gaunt  and  thin  ;  he  wears  his  garment  dl 
camels  hair,  and  has  in  his  hand  a  staff  with  a  cross  at  the  top 
of  it.  He  stands  in  a  sort  of  pulpit,  behind  which  is  a  build- 
ing, presumably  a  church  ;  whilst  in  front  of  him  listen  three 
old  men,  a  woman,  and  a  child.    Below  are  three  more  women. 

f.  He  ansvjers  the  Pharisees  (on  the  wall  opposite  e). — 
To  the  right  are  the  priests  and  Levites  sent  from  Jerusalem, 
asking,  "What  says  he  of  himself?"  They  are  four  in  num- 
ber, a  Babbi  and  three  Pharisees.  To  the  left  is  St.  John 
with  two  disciples  behind  him.  Between  them  rolls  the  Jor- 
dan, at  the  ferry  to  which  (Bethabara)  the  discussion  between 
the  Baptist  and  the  Jews  took  place,  and  across  the  river  the 
Babbi  asks : 

QVOM  .  ERGO  .  B^PT 
ZAS  .  SI  NQE  .  XPS  .  NE 
Q  .  HELLA,.  NEQ'  PHA 

"Quomodo  ergo  baptizas  si  neque  Christus,  neque  Elia,  neque  Pro- 
pheta  ?  " 2 

14  Why  baptizest  thou,  then,  if  thou  be  not  that  Christ,  nor  Elias, 
neither  that  prophet  ?  "    (John  i.  25). 

St.  John  does  not,  however,  give  the  answer  recorded  of 
him  in  the  Gospel,  but  another  written  above  his  head 
thus  : — 


1  The  mark  of  abbreviation  over  the  C  shows  the  omission  of  an  h  in 
the  mediaeval  "  predichat  "  * 
*  The  Vulgate  has  "  Quid  ergo  baptizas  si  tu  non  es,"  etc. 


164 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


+1*  EGO  JBAPTIZO  mO 
MIE  PATRIS_ 
ET  .  FILII  .  7.  SP' 
SCI 


* 4  Ego  baptizo  in  nomine  patrio  et 
filii  &  Spiritns  sancti. " 

"I  baptize  in  tlie  name  of  the 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit." 


g.  He  baptizes  Christ. 


HICE  BAPTISMV  XPI 


On  the  left  is  a  tree  with  an  axe  laid  to  its  root.  In  the 
centre  stands  St.  John,  with  his  hand  on  the  head  of  Christ, 
who  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  river.  Three  angels  look  down 
from  the  right  bank  into  the  water  ;  and  in  it  are  five  fishes, 
over  one  of  which  Christ's  hand  is  raised  in  blessing.  Below 
is  a  child  with  a  golden  vase  in  one  hand,  probably  the  river 
god  of  the  Jordan,  who  is  sometimes  introduced  into  these 
pictures.  From  above  a  ray  of  light,  with  a  star  and  a  dove 
in  it,  descends  on  the  head  of  Christ :  "  And  Jesus  when  he 
was  "baptized,  went  up  straightway  out  of  the  water  :  and,  lo, 
the  heavens  were  opened  unto  him,  and  he  saw  the  Spirit  of 
God  descending  like  a  dove,  and  lighting  upon  him  :  and,  lo, 
a  voice  from  heaven,  saying,  This  is  my  beloved  Son,  in  whom 
I  am  well  pleased  "  (Matt.  iii.  16,  17). 

h.  Ilis  death  is  commanded  by  Herod  (over  the  door  into  the 
main  body  of  the  church). 


The  mosaic  is  (according  to  the  sacristan)  entirely  restored, 
«  and  the  letters  of  the  legend  appear  to  have  been  incorrectly 
treated.    The  words  are  "Puellae  saltanti  imperavit  mater 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


165 


nihil  (?  mchil)  aliud  petas  nisi  caput  Jobannis  Baptistae  " — 
"And  as  the  girl  danced  her  mother  commanded  her,  saying, 
Ask  for  nothing  else,  but  only  for  the  head  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist" 

Five  figures  are  seen  in  the  mosaic  : — - 

1.  Herod  with  his  hands  raised  in  horror  and  distress, 
exceeding  sorry  "  (Mark  vi.  26). 

2.  Herodias,  pointing  at  him,  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 

3.  Herodias'  daughter  dancing,  with  the  charger  on  her  head. 

4.  Another  figure  with  regard  to  which  see  ante,  p.  67,  §  8, 
where  it  is  suggested  that  the  figure  is  St.  John  at  a  former 
time,  saying  to  Herod,  "  It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to  have  her." 
If  this  is  not  so,  it  may  be  that  the  figure  represents  the 
"  lords,  high  captains,  and  chief  estates  of  Galilee  "  (Mark  vi. 
21)  wTho  were  at  the  feast. 

5.  A  servant  in  attendance, 

i.  He  is  beheaded. 

•J*  DECHOLACIO  SCI  IOHIS  BAT. 
"  The  beheading  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.' ' 

To  the  left  is  the  headless  body  of  St.  John,  still  in  prison. 
"  And  immediately  the  king  sent  an  executioner  (or  '  one  of 
Ijis  guard'),  and  he  went  and  beheaded  him  in  prison."  The 
Baptist  has  leant  forward,  and  his  hands  are  stretched  out,  as 
if  to  save  himself  in  falling.  A  Roman  soldier  is  sheathing  his 
sword,  and  looks  somewhat  disgusted  at  the  daughter  of 
Herodias  as  she  carries  the  head  to  her  mother,  who  sits  en- 
throned near.    (See  ante,  p.  69,  §  10.) 

j.  He  is  buried. — "  And  when  his  disciples  heard  of  it  they 
came  and  took  up  his  corpse  and  laid  it  in  a  tomb  "  (Mark  vi. 
29). 

*  i  Hie  sepelitur  corpus  sancti  Johan- 
H.  SEPELITVR  .  CO  nis  Baptistae  "— <k  Here  is  being 

RPVS  .  S  .  IOHIS  .  BAT  buried  the  body  of  St.  John  the 

(See  ante,  p.  69,  §  10.)  Baptist." 

The  headless  body  of  the  Baptist  is  being  laid  in  the  grave 
by  two  disciples,  whilst  a  third  swings  a  censer  over  it. 


166 


ST.  MAIZE'S  BEST. 


EE.  The  Infancy  of  Christ. — Going  back  now  to  the  wesfc  end 
of  the  chapel,  we  have  four  mosaics  representing  scenes  in  the 
infancy  of  Christ. 

1.  The  wise  men  before  Herod.  | 

2.  The  wise  men  adoring  Christ,  j 

3.  The  flight  into  Egypt.  ( 

4.  The  Holy  Innocents.  j 

1.  The  wise  men  before  Herod. 

Herod  is  seated  on  his  throne,  attended  by  a  Roman  sol- 
dier ;  he  looks  puzzled  and  anxious.  Before  him  are  the  three 
kings  in  attitudes  of  supplication  ;  and  above  are  the  words — 

+  VBIE  .  QVINATU'  .  EST  .  REX  .  JUD^EORUM 

"  Ubi  est  qui  natus  est  rex  Judaeorum  f.?  £  ^  Matt  ii  2 

"  Where  is  he  that  is  born  king  of  the  Jews  ?"  ) 


Above  c  and  e  in  the  Life 
of  St.  John. 

Opposite  1  and  2. 


2.  TJie  ivise  men  adoring  Christ 

+  ADORABVT  EV  ONS  REGES  TERE  ET  OMS  GETES  SER- 
VIENT EI 

u  Adorabunt  eum  omnes  reges  terrae,  (et)  onines  gentes  servient  ei." 
"Yea,  all  kings  shall  fall  down  before  him  ;  all  nations  shall  serve 
him"  (Psalm  lxxii.  10,  11). 

In  the  centre  is  the  Madonna  seated  on  a  throne,  which  is 
also  part  of  the  stable  of  the  inn.  On  her  knees  is  the  infant 
Christ,  with  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  raised  in  benediction. 
The  Madonna  holds  out  her  hand,  as  if  showing  the  Child  to 
the  kings,  who  approach  Him  with  gifts  and  in  attitudes  of 
devout  worship.  To  the  left  is  a  man  leading  a  camel  out  of  a 
building  ;  whilst  to  the  right  of  the  stable  lies  Joseph  asleep, 
with  an  angel  descending  to  him  :  "Arise  and  take  the  young 
child."  (See  the  next  mosaic.)  The  rays  from  the  central 
figure  of  the  vaulted  roof  fall,  one  on  the  second  of  the  three 
kings,  and  another,  the  most  brilliant  of  them, — upon  which, 
where  it  breaks  into  triple  glory,  the  star  of  Bethlehem  is 
set, — upon  the  Madonna  and  the  Christ. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIIL 


167 


3.  The  flight  into  Egypt. 

»*<i  SVRGE  ET  ACCIPE  PUERVM  ET  MATREM  EU'  ET  FUGE 
IN  EGYPTUM  .  ET  ESTO  IBI  USQ'  DVM  DICAM  TIBI 

4<  Surge  et  accipe  puerum  et  matrem  ejus  et  fuge  in  Egyptum  et  esto 
ibi  usque  dum  dicam  tibi." 

*'  Arise  and  take  the  young  child  and  his  mother,  and  nee  into  Egypt, 
and  be  there  until  I  bring  thee  word  "  (St.  Matt.  ii.  13). 

A  youth  carrying  a  gourd  leads  into  a  building  with  a 
mosque-like  dome  a  white  ass,  on  which  is  seated  the  Ma- 
donna, holding  the  infant  Christ.  Joseph  walks  behind,  car- 
rying a  staff  and  cloak.  The  fact  of  the  journey  being  sudden 
and  hasty  is  shown  by  the  very  few  things  which  the  fugitives 
have  taken  with  them — only  a  cloak  and  a  gourd  ;  they  have 
left  the  presents  of  the  three  kings  behind. 

4  The  Holy  Innocents. 

TUNC  .  HERODE'  VIDE'  Q'MILVSV  EET  AMAGI'  IRATV'E  .  RE, 

DE.  7.  MIT 

TES  OCCIDIT.  OMS  PUERO'  QVI.  ERANT .  BETHLEEM  QM.  OIRUS 
FINIBUS.  EIVS.1 

(<Tunc  Herodes  videns  quoniam  illusus  esset  a  magis  iratus  est  valde, 
et  mittens  occidit  omnes  pueros  qui  erant  in  Bethlehem  et  in  omnibus 
finibus  ejus. " 

"  Then  Herod,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  mocked  of  the  wise  men, 
was  exceeding  wroth,  and  sent  forth,  and  slew  all  the  children  that 
were  in  Bethlehem,  and  in  all  the  coasts  thereof*  (Matt.  ii.  16). 

Three  Eoman  soldiers  are  killing  the  children,  some  of 
whom  already  lie  dead  and  bleeding  on  the  rocky  ground. 
To  the  right  is  a  mother  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  near 
her  another  woman  is  holding  up  her  hands  in  grief. 

III.  St.  Nicholas. 

Just  below  the  mosaic  of  the  Holy  Innocents  is  one  of  S. 
NICOLATP — St.  Nicholas — with  one  hand  raised  in  benedic- 

1  The  letters  underlined  are  unintelligible,  as  otherwise  the  legend 
follows  the  Vulgate.  Possibly  the  words  have  been  retouched,  and  the 
letters  incorrectly  restored. 


168 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


tion  whilst  the  other  holds  a  book.  He  is  here,  close  to  the 
small  door  that  opens  on  to  the  Piazzetta,  the  nearest  to  the 
sea  of  all  the  saints  in  St.  Mark's,  because  he  is  the  sea  saint, 
the  patron  of  all  ports,  and  especially  of  Venice.  He  was,  it 
is  wTell  known,  with  St.  George  and  St.  Mark,  one  of  the  three 
saints  who  saved  Venice  frem  the  demon  ship  in  the  storm 
when  St.  Mark  gave  to  the  fishermen  the  famous  ring. 

There  now  remain  for  the  traveller's  examination  the  three 
vaults  of  the  Baptistery,  the  arches  leading  from  one  division 
of  the  chapel  to  another,  and  the  spandrils  which  support  the 
font  and  altar  domes.  In  the  arch  leading  from  the  west  end 
of  the  chapel  to  the  front  are  the  four  evangelists ;  in  that 
leading  from  the  dome  over  the  font  to  that  over  the  altar  are 
four  saints,  whilst  in  the  spandrils  of  the  two  last-named  domes 
are,  over  the  font,  the  four  Greek,  and  over  the  altar  the  four 
Latin  fathers. 

IV.  The  Four  Evangelists. 

S.  LUCAS  EVG. 

St.  Luke  is  writing  in  a  book,  and  has  written  a  letter  and 
a  half,  possibly  QV,  the  first  two  letters  of  Quonium — "  For- 
asmuch " — which  is  the  opening  word  of  his  Gospel. 

S.  MARCVS  EVG. 

St.  Mark  is  sharpening  his  pencil,  and  has  a  pair  of  pincers 
on  his  desk. 

S.  IOHES  EVG. 

St.  John  is  represented  as  very  old, — alluding  of  course  to 
his  having  written  his  Gospel  late  in  life. 

S.  MATHEV  EVG. 

St.  Matthew  is  writing,  and  just  dipping  his  pen  in  the  ink. 

V.  Four  Saints — St.  Anthony,  St.  Pietro  Urseolo,  St.  Isidore, 
St.  Theodore. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


169 


tf.  St.  Anthony  (on  the  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  arch). 

ILB  EA 
TO  AN 

TON    10  "  II  beato  Antonio  di  Bresa." 

DI  BR 
E  SA 

St.  Anthony  is  the  hermit  saint.  He  stands  here  with 
clasped  hands,  and  at  his  side  is  a  skull,  the  sign  of  penitence. 
He  wears,  as  in  many  other  pictures  of  him,  a  monk's  dress, 
in  allusion  to  his  being  "the  founder  of  ascetic  monachism.,, 
"His  temptations"  are  well  known. 

b.  St.  JPietro  Urseolo  (above  St.  Anthony). 

►J«  BEA  TUS  "  Beatus  Petrus  Ursiolo  dux(s)  Vened." 

PETER  V'VRSI  "The  blessed  Pietro  Urseolo,  Doge  of 

O  DUXS  the  Venetians. " 

LO  VENED 

This  Doge  turned  monk.  Influenced  by  the  teaching  of  the 
abbot  Guarino,  when  he  came  to  Venice  from  his  convent  in 
Guyenne,  Pietro  left  his  ducal  palace  one  September  night, 
fled  from  Venice,  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  monastery  of 
Cusano,  where  he  remained  for  nineteen  years,  till  his  death 
in  997. 

Here  he  is  represented  as  a  monk  in  a  white  robe,  with  a 
black  cloak.  He  holds  in  his  hand  the  Doge's  cap,  which  he 
has  doffed  for  ever,  and  as  he  looks  upwards,  there  shines 
down  on  him  a  ray  of  light,  in  the  centre  of  which  is  seen  the 
Holy  Dove. 

c.  St.  Isidore  (opposite  the  Doge). 

S.  ISIDORVS  MARTIR  (?) 

This  is  St,  Isidore  of  Chios,  a  martyr  saint,  who  perished 
during  the  persecutions  of  the  Christians  by  the  Emperor 
Decius,  a.d.  250.  He  appears  to  have  been  much  worshipped 
at  Venice,  where  he  is  buried.  Here  he  is  seen  dressed  as  a 
warrior,  and  bearing  a  shield  and  a  lily,  the  symbol  of  purity.1 

1  See  Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  ii.  chap,  viii  §  127,  and  vol.  iii.  chap.  ii. 
§  01.  His  body  was  brought  to  Venice  with  that  of  St.  Donato  in  1126 
by  the  Doge  Domenico  Michiel.    See  ante  p.  14. 


170 


ST.  MARK'S  REST. 


d.  St.  Theodore,    s.  theodoe.  m. 

He  is  with  St.  George,  St.  Demetrius,  and  St.  Mercurius, 
one  of  the  four  Greek  warrior  saints  of  Christendom,  besides 
being,  of  course,  the  patron  saint  of  Venice.  He  is  martyr  as 
well  as  warrior,  having  fired  the  temple  of  Cybele,  and  per- 
ished in  the  flames,  a.d.  300. 

The  four  saints  upon  this  arch  thus  represent  two  forms 
of  Christian  service  ;  St.  Anthony  and  the  Doge  being  chosen 
as  types  of  asceticism,  and  the  other  two  as  examples  of 
actual  martyrdom. 

VI.  The  Four  Greek  Fathers — St.  John  Chrysostom,  St. 
Gregory  JVazianzenus,  St.  Basil  the  Great,  and  St.  Alhanasius  (on 
the  spandrils  of  the  central  dome). 

a.  s.  iohes  crisostomos  patka  (patriarch),  on  the  right  of  the 
door  leading  into  the  church. 

He  has  no  mitre,  being  one  of  the  Greek  Fathers,  who  are 
thus  distinguished  from  the  Latin  Fathers,  all  of  whom,  except 
St.  Jerome  (the  cardinal),  wear  mitres. 

He  bears  a  scroll — 


h.  s.  gregorivs  naziakzenus  (to  the  right  of  St.  John  Chry- 
Bostom).  He  is  represented,  as  he  usually  is,  as  old  and  worn 
with  fasting.    On  his  scroll  is  written — 


*Ji  REG 

NVM.I 

NTRA 

BIT.Q 

VE.NON 

S.PVR 

VS  JRT 

E.  LAV 

ABIT 


"  He  shall  enter  the  kingdom  :  who  is 
not  clean,  him  shall  he  thoroughly  wash. " 


"  Regnum  intrabit,  quern  non  sit  purus 
arte  lavabit." 


•J-  QVO 

DNA 

TURA 

TULI 

T  XPS 

BAPTI 

SMAT 

ECV 

RAT 


* 1  Quod  natura  tulit  Christus  baptismate 
curat." 

1 '  What  nature  has  brought,  Christ  by 
baptism  cures," 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


171 


c.  s.  basil  (to  the  right  of  his  friend  St.  Gregory).  St.  Basil 
the  Great,  the  founder  of  rnonachism  in  the  East,  began  his 
life  of  devotion  in  early  youth,  and  is  here  represented  as  a 
young  man.  The  order  of  the  Basilicans  is  still  the  only  order 
in  the  Greek  Church.    His  scroll  has — 

UT  SO  «  Ut  sole  est  primum  lux"  (as  by  the 


MUM 

d.  s.  athanasius,  old  and  white-haired.    His  scroll  runs — 

•J*  UT  UN 
UM  EST 


VII.  The  Four  Latin  Fathers — St.  Jerome,  St.  Ambrose,  St. 
Augustine,  and  St.  Gregory  the  Great  (on  the  spandrils  of  the 
altar  dome). 

The  light  hero  is  very  bad ;  and  even  after  accustoming 
himself  to  it,  the  reader  will  hardly  be  able  to  do  more  than 
see  that  all  four  figures  have  books  before  them,  in  which  they 
are  writing,  apparently  in  Greek  characters.  What  they  have 
written — in  no  case  more  than  a  few  letters — is  impossible  to 
decipher  from  the  floor  of  the  chapel.  St.  Jerome  wears  his 
cardinal's  hat  and  robes,  and  St.  Ambrose  has  his  bee-hive 
near  him,  in  allusion  to  the  story  that  when  in  his  cradle  a 
swarm  of  bees  once  lighted  on  his  lips  and  did  not  sting  him. 

The  visitor  has  thus  examined  all  the  mosaics  except  those 
of  the  three  domes.  He  must  now,  therefore,  return  from 
near  the  altar  to  the  further  end  of  the  chapel,  and  take  the 
first  vaulting  (for  accurately  this  is  not  a  dome)  of  that  part 
of  the  roof. 


LE  EST 

PBIMUM 

LUX)mu 

EIRIDE 

BATIS 


sun  first  we  have  light).  The  rest  is  un- 
intelligible, except  the  last  word,  which 
suggests  that  the  comparison  is  between 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  spiritual  light 
of  baptism. 


NUM 
EN  SI 
C  SACK 


u  Ut  unum  est  numen,  sic  sacro  munere 
a  lumen  (?  atque  lumen)." 

"As  the  Godhead  is  one,  so  also  bj 
God's  gift  is  light"  (?) 


NERE 
OMU 
ALV 
MEN 


172 


ST  MARK REST. 


VUL  Christ  and  the  Prophets. 

In  the  centre  is  Christ,  surrounded  by  the  prophets  and 
patriarchs  of  the  Old  Testament,  each  of  whom  unfolds  a 
scroll  and  displays  on  it  a  portion  of  his  own  prophecy. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  altar,  the  visitor  will  thus  see 
to  the  left  of  the  Christ,  Zephaniah  and  Elisha,  and  to  his 
right  Isaiah  and  Hosea. 


.  ZEPHANIAH. 

SOPHONIAH  PHA  (propheta). 

His  scroll  runs  thus : — 

"  Expecta  me  in  die  resurrectionis  meai 

rp  4  HT"C 

1A  MEi 

quoniam  ju(dicium  meum  ut  congregem 

T-\r  TiTTi1 
JL1N  Ulili 

gentesj. 

See  Zeph.  iii.  8.    This  legend  is  short- 

RECT 

ened,  and  not  quite  accurately  quoted, 

IONIS 

from  the  Vulgate.    Our  version  is  : — 

MEB 

4*  Wait  ye  upon  me  until  the  day  that 

QUO 

I  rise  up  . .  for  my  determination  is  to 

NIMA 

gather  the  nations. ..." 

IU 

777  T  7d  TT  A 

,  ELIbHA. 

HiJjllSrjAb  JrjiA 

fecroll : — JrAlJiK 

MI  PA 

Pater  mi,  pater  mi,  currus  Israel  et 

1  shsx  Ml 

auriga  ejus." 

nTTT>TiTT) 

CuRRu 

4  4  My  father,  my  father,  the  chariot  of 

ISRAEL 

Israel  and  the  horsemen  thereof." 

ETAU 

2  Kings  ii.  12. 

RIGA 

EIVS 

ISAIAH. 

ISAIAS 

PHA 

Scroll:—  ECCE  V 

"  Ecce  virgo  concipiet  et  pariet  filium 

IRGOc 

et  vocabitur  nom  (en  ejus  Emmanuel)." 

CIPIET 

"Behold  a  virgin  shall  conceive  and 

ET  PAR 

bear  a  son,  and  shall  call  his  name  Ini- 

IET  FILI 

manuel."  1 

TJM  ET  V 

Isa.  vii.  14. 

OCABIT 

UR  NOM 

1  Isaiah  is  constantly  represented  with  these  words  on  his  scroll,  as, 
for  example,  on  the  roof  of  the  Arena  Chapel  at  Padua,  and  on  the 
western  porches  of  the  cathedral  of  Verona. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


173 


4.  HOSE  A, 


OSIA 
PHA 


Scroll ; 


-VENIT 
EET  RE 
VERTA 
MURAD^ 
DOMINU 
QVIA 
IPSE  CE 
PIT  ET 
SANA 


u  Venite  et  revertamur  ad  dominum 
quia  ipse  cepit  et  sana  (bit  nosj." 

"  Come  and  let  us  return  unto  the 
Lord,  for  lie  has  torn  and  he  will  heal 
us." 

Hosea  vi.  1. 


Then  turning  around  and  facing  the  altar,  we  have,  to  the 
left  of  the  Christ,  Jeremiah  and  Elijah  ;  to  the  right,  Abraham 
and  Joel. 


6 


5.  JEREMIAH. 


Scroll:— HIC  EST 
DEVS 
NOSTER 
ET  NON 
EXTIMA 
BITUR 
ALIVS 

ELIJAH 


Scroll:—  DOMIN 
ESICO 
NUER 

sus 

AVEN 
IT  PO 
PVLVS 
TV 
VS 

r  ABRAHAM. 


Scroll  :- 


-VISITA 

VIT  DO 

MINUS 

SARAM 

SICUT 

PROMI 

SERAT 


JEREMIAS 
PHA 

uHic  est  Deus  noster  et  non  extima- 
bitur  alius." 

* 4  This  is  our  God,  and  none  other 
shall  be  feared." 


ELIA 
PHA 

"  Domine  si(c)  conversus  avenit  pop- 
ulus  tuus." 

uLord,  thus  are  thy  people  come 
against  thee." 

This  is  not  biblical.  It  is  noticeable 
that  Elijah,  unlike  the  other  prophets, 
who  look  at  the  spectator,  is  turning  to 
the  Christ,  whom  he  addresses. 

ABRAN 
PHA. 

c<  Visitavit  (autem)  dominus  Saram 
sicut  promiserat. " 

' 1  The  Lord  visited  Sarah  as  he  had 
said." 

Gen.  xxi.  1. 


ST.  MARK'S  BEST. 


8.  JOEL. 

Scroll : — SUPER 

SERVO(S) 

MEOSET 

SUPERA 

NCILAS 

ERUNEA 

MDES 

PVMEO 


JOEL 
PHA 

u  Super  servos  meos  et  super  ancillas 
effundam  de  spiritu  meo. "  1 

4i  Upon  m j  men  servants  and  hand- 
maids will  I  pour  out  (of)  my  spirit.* ? 

Joel  ii.  29. 


Then,  still  facing  the  altar,  there  are  on  the  wall  to  the  right 
David  and  Solomon  ;  on  that  to  the  left,  above  the  Baptism  of 
Christ,  Obadiah  and  Jonah. 


9.  DAVID. 


Scroll : 


-FILIUS 
MEV.E 
STU.E 
GO.H 
ODIE 
GEN 
UI.T 
E 


DAVID 
PHA 

"  Filius  me  us  es  tu,  ego  hodie  genui 
te." 

"  Thou  art  my  son,  this  day  have  I  be- 
gotten thee." 

Psalm  ii.  7. 


10.  SOLOMON. 

Scroll :— QVESI 
VI.ILLV 
M.ETNO 
NINVEN 
I.IUENE 
RUT.  IN 
ME.VIGI 
LE.QVI 
CUTO 
DIUT 
CIUI 
TA 
TEM 


SALOMON 
PHA 


"  Qusesivi  ilium  et  non  inveni-inven- 
erunt  in  me  vigiles  qui  custodiunt  civi- 
tateni," 

"I  sought  him,  but  I  found  him  not. 
The  watchmen  that  go  about  the  city 
found  (or  '  came  upon')  me." 

Song  of  Solomon,  iii.  2,  3. 


!The  mosaic  hag  apparently  u  erundam**  for  ^effuridam,5'  possibly  a 
restorer's  error.    The  Vulgate  has  u  spiritum  neum,"  for  ude  spiritu 

meo," 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


175 


11   OBADIAH.  ABDIAS 

PHA 

Scroll:— ECCE 

PARV  u  Ecce  parvulum  dedit  te  in  gen- 

ULVM  tibas." 

DEDI  "  Behold  lie  has  made  thee  small 

TTE  among  the  heathen." 

INGE  Obadiah  2. 

NTI  (Vulgate  has  "  dedi :  "  and  so  has 

BV  our  Bible  "I  have.") 

S 


12.  JONAH. 


Scroll  : 


-CLAMA 
VIADD 
OMINU 
MEEX 
AUDI 
VITME 
DETR 
IBULA 
>£TIO 
*Y  N 


JONAS 
PHA 

"Clamavi  ad  dominum  et  exaudivit 
me  de  tribulatione  mea." 

"I  cried  by  reason  of  my  affliction 
to  the  Lord,  and  he  heard  me." 

Jonah  ii.  2. 


IX.  Christ  and  the  Apostles.    (See  ante,  p.  67.  §  8.) 

Passing  now  to  under  the  central  dome,  Christ  is  again  seen 
enthroned  in  the  midst,  no  longer,  however,  of  the  prophets, 
but  of  his  own  disciples.  He  is  no  longer  the  Messiah,  but 
the  risen  Christ.  He  wears  gold  and  red,  the  emblems  of 
royalty  ;  his  right  hand  is  raised  in  blessing  ;  his  left  holds 
the  resurrection  banner  and  a  scroll.  The  marks  of  the  nails 
are  visible  in  the  hands  and  feet  here  only  ;  they  are  not  to 
be  seen,  of  course,  in  the  previous  vaulting,  nor  are  they  in 
the  third  or  altar  dome  where  he  sits  enthroned  triumphant 
as  the  Heavenly  King. 


176 


ST  MARK'S  REST. 


Scroll  :—EVNTES 


INMVDV 

UNIVES 

VM.  PRE 

DICHAT 

EEVAN 

GELIV 

MOMIC 

REATU 

REQI 

CREDI 

DERI 

TEBA 

PTIS 

ATU 


ki  Go  ye  into  all  the  world,  and 
preach  the  Gospel  to  every  creature. 
He  that  believeth  and  is  baptized  shall 
be  saved." 


' ' Euntes  in  mundum  universuu 
predicate  evangelium  onrni  creature. 
Qui  crediderit  et  baptizatu^s  fuerit  sal* 
vus  erit)." 


St.  Mark  xvi.  15,  16. 


Below,  right  round  the  dome,  are  the  twelve  Apostles,  bap- 
tizing each  in  the  country  with  which  his  ministry  is  actually 
or  by  tradition  most  associated.  A  list  of  them  has  been  al- 
ready given  (ante,  p.  67,  §  8),  with  their  countries,  except  that 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  which  is  there  noted  as  "  indecipherable. " 
It  is,  however,  legible  as  India. 

Each  Apostle  is  the  centre  of  a  similar  group,  consisting  of 
the  Apostle  himself,  his  convert,  in  the  moment  of  baptism, 
and  a  third  figure  whose  position  is  doubtful.  He  may  be 
awaiting  baptism,  already  baptized,  or  merely  an  attendant : 
in  the  group  of  St.  James  the  Less,  he  holds  a  towel ;  in  that 
of  St.  Thomas,  a  cross  ;  and  in  every  case  he  wears  the  cos- 
tume of  the  country  where  the  baptism  is  taking  place.  Thus, 
to  take  the  most  striking  instances,  St.  Philip's  Phrygian  has 
the  red  Phrygian  cap  ;  St.  Peter's  Koman  is  a  Roman  sol- 
dier ;  the  Indians  of  St.  Thomas  and  St.  Bartholomew  are  (ex- 
cept for  some  slight  variety  of  colour)  both  dressed  alike,  and 
wear  turbans.  Behind  the  figures  is  in  each  group  a  build- 
ing, also  characteristic  architecturally  of  the  given  country, 
In  two  instances  there  is  seen  a  tree  growing  out  of  this 
building,  namely,  in  the  case  of  Palestine  and  in  that  of 
Achaia  ;  but  whether  or  no  with  any  special  meaning  or  al- 
lusion may  be  doubtful. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VIII. 


177 


The  inscriptions  are  as  follows  (see  ante,  p.  67) : 


SCS  IOHES  EVG  BAPTIZA 
S.  IACOB  MINOR 
S.  PHVLIP 
&  MATHEV 
S.  SIMEON 
S.  TOMAS 
S.  ANDRE 
S.  PETRV 
S.  BARTOLOMEV 
S.  TADEV 
S.  MATIAS 
SCS  MARCTS  EVS 


I  EFESO 
I JUDEA 
I  FRIGIA 
I  ETHIOPIA 
I  EGIPTV 
IN  INDIA 
I  ACHAIA 
IN  ROMA 
I  INDIA 

I  MESOPOTAMIA 
I  PALESTIN 
I  ALESANDRIA 


In  this  list,  most  careful  reference  is  made,  as  has  been 
said,  to  the  various  traditions  concerning  the  places  of  each 
Apostle's  special  ministry,  the  main  tradition  being  always 
followed  in  eases  of  doubt.  Thus  St.  John  was  bishop  of 
Ephesus  ;  St  James  the  Less  bishop  of  Jerusalem,  where  he 
received  St.  Paul,  and  introduced  him  to  the  Church ;  St 
Philip  labored  in  Phrygia,  and  is  said  to  have  died  at  Hiera- 
polis  ;  St.  Matthew  chiefly  in  Ethiopia ;  St.  Simeon  in  Egypt ; 
and  St.  Thomas  (though  this  may  be  by  confusion  with  an- 
other Thomas)  is  said  to  have  preached  in  India  and  founded 
the  Church  at  Malabar,  where  his  tomb  is  shown,  and  "  Chris- 
tians of  St.  Thomas"  is  still  a  name  for  the  Church.  So, 
again,  St  Andrew  preached  in  Achaia,  and  was  there  crucified 
at  Patrse ;  the  connection  of  St.  Peter  with  Rome  needs  no 
comment ;  both  Jerome  and  Eusebius  assign  India  to  St 
Bartholomew ;  St  Thaddseus  or  Jude  preached  in  Syria  and 
Arabia,  and  died  at  Eddessa  ;  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the 
ministry  of  St  Matias  were  spent  in  Palestine  ;  and  lastly,  St 
Mark  is  reported  to  have  been  sent  by  St  Peter  to  Egypt,  and 
there  founded  the  Church  at  Alexandria. 


X-  Chbist  and  the  Angels. 

"We  pass  lastly  to  the  altar-dome,  already  partly  described 
in  the  "  Requiem  "  chapter  of  this  book  (p.  68,  §  9). 

In  the  centre  is  Christ  triumphant,  enthroned  on  the  stars, 
with  the  letters  IC  XC  once  more  on  either  side  of  him.  In 


178 


bi\  MARK'S  REST. 


the  circle  witli  him  are  two  angels,  whose  wings  veil  all  but 
their  faces  ;  round  it  are  nine  other  angels,  ruby-coloured  for 
love,  and  bearing  flaming  torches.  "  He  maketh  his  angels 
spirits,  and  his  ministers  a  flaming  fire." 

Lower  down  round  the  dome  are  the  "  angels  and  arch- 
angels and  all  the  company  of  heaven,"  who  "  laud  and  mag- 
nify His  glorious  name."  These  heavenly  agencies  are  divided 
into  three  hierarchies,  each  of  three  choirs,  and  these  nine 
choirs  are  given  round  this  vault. 

Hierarchy  I.    .    .        Seraphim,  Cherubim,  Thrones. 
Hierarchy  II.  .    .    .    Dominations,  Virtues,  Powers. 
Hierarchy  III.     .    .    Princedoms,  Archangels,  Angels. 

"  The  first  three  choirs  receive  their  glory  immediately  from 
God,  and  transmit  it  to  the  second  ;  the  second  illuminate 
the  third  ;  the  third  are  placed  in  relation  to  the  created 
universe  and  man.  The  first  hierarchy  are  as  councillors ;  the 
second  as  governors  ;  the  third  as  ministers.  The  Seraphim 
are  absorbed  in  perpetual  love  and  adoration  immediately 
round  the  throne  of  God  ;  the  Cherubim  know  and  worship  ; 
the  Thrones  sustain  the  seat  of  the  Most  High.  The  Domi- 
nations, Virtues,  Powers,  are  the  regents  of  the  stars  and  ele- 
ments. The  last  three  orders — Princedoms,  Archangels,  and 
Angels — are  the  protectors  of  the  great  monarchies  on  earth, 
and  the  executors  of  the  will  of  God  throughout  the  universe."  1 
The  visitor  can  see  for  himself  how  accurately  this  state- 
ment is  borne  out  by  the  mosaics  of  the  altar-dome.  Imme- 
diately over  the  altar,  and  nearest  therefore  to  the  presence 
of  God,  is  the  Cherubim,  "  the  Lord  of  those  that  know,"  with 
the  words  "fulness  of  knowledge,"  "plenitudo  scientiae,"  on 
his  heart  %  to  the  left  is  the  Seraphim  ;  to  the  right  the 
Thrones,  "  sustaining  the  seat  of  the  Most  High."  Further 
to  the  right  come  the  Dominations — an  armed  angel,  holding 
in  one  hand  a  balance,  in  the  other  a  spear.  In  one  scale  of 
the  balance  is  a  man,  in  the  other  the  book  of  the  law ;  and 
this  latter  scale  is  being  just  snatched  at  by  a  winged  demon, 
who,  grovelling  on  the  ground,  turns  round  to  meet  the  speax 
1  Mrs.  Jameson's  44  Legendary  Art,"  p.  45. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  VII I. 


179 


of  the  angel.  Opposite  the  Dominations  are  the  Princedoms 
or  Principalities,  another  armed  angel,  wearing  a  helmet  and 
calmly  seated  among  the  stars;  and  the  Powers  ("potes- 
tates ")  with  a  black  devil  chained  at  his  feet.  The  Virtues 
come  next,  with  a  skeleton  in  a  grave  below,  and  at  the  back 
a  pillar  of  fire  ;  and,  lastly,  the  Angels  and  Archangels,  "  the 
executors  of  the  will  of  God  throughout  the  universe,"  are 
seen  nearest  to  the  gospel-dome,  standing  above  a  rocky  cave, 
in  which  are  three  figures.  They  appear  to  have  various 
functions  in  the  resurrection  ;  the  angel  holds  out  a  swathed 
man  to  the  archangel,  who  holds  a  man  (perhaps  the  same 
man),  from  whom  the  grave-clothes  are  falling.  Between 
them  they  thus  complete  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

It  remains  only  for  the  visitor  to  observe,  before  leaving  the 
chapel,  the  manner  in  which  its  different  parts  are  related  to 
each  other.  Upon  the  arch  at  the  entrance  to  the  gospel- 
dome  are  the  Four  Evangelists ;  on  that  which  prefaces  the 
altar-dome,  with  its  display  of  heavenly  triumph,  are  four 
saints  "militant  here  on  earth."  But  it  is  the  domes  them- 
selves whose  meaning  is  most  evidently  connected.  In  all, 
the  same  Figure  is  seen  in  the  centre,  surrounded  in  the  first 
by  the  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament,  in  the  second  by  the 
Apostles,  in  the  third  by  the  heavenly  choirs,  the  three  to- 
gether thus  proclaiming  the  promise,  the  ministry,  and  the 
triumph  of  the  prophesied,  crucified  and  glorified  Christ. 

SANCTUS,  SANCTUS,  SANCTUS, 
DOMINUS,  DEUS,  OMNIPOTENS, 
QUI  ERAT,  QUI  EST,  ET  QUI  VENTURUS  EST. 

Rev.  iv.  8« 


INDEX. 


Abraham,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  mosaic,  173. 
Adams'  "  Venice  Past  and  Present,''  quoted,  20  n. 
Adder  soiled,  symbolical  of  eternity,  144. 
Age,  feelings  of  old,  125. 
Alexis,  Emperor,  and  Venice,  56. 

Altinuni,  Bishop  of,  founds  early  Venetian  churches,  52. 
Anderson,  J.  B,.,  on  Carpaccio,  1  S.  pref.  ;  St.  George,  1  S.  96  j  2  S. 

128  ;  St.  Jerome,  1  S.  104,  seq. 
Angelico,  his  religion  sincere,  pref.,  3. 
Angels,  the  hierarchies  of,  68,  178 ;  sculpture  of,  39. 
Animals,  place  of,  in  European  Chivalry,  8  ;  Venetian  love  of,  53. 
Apostles,  baptizing  (St.  Mark's  Baptistery),  67  seq.,  176  seq. 

"      scenes  of  their  ministry,  176. 
Arabesques,  of  Carpaccio,  1  S.,  99. 
Achitecture,  an  'order'  of,  15. 
Art,  great,  combines  grace  and  fitness,  15. 

•*    always  instinctive,  pref.  3. 

11    depends  on  national  sympathy,  pref.  3. 

M    as  material  of  history,  pref.  4  seq. 

M    the  faithful  witness,  pref.  3. 
Ascalon,  not  attacked  by  Venice,  10. 
Ascension,  mosaic  of  the,  St.  Mark's,  87. 
Assisi,  Giotto's  chapel  at,  1  S.  111. 
Assyria,  gods  of,  83. 
Athena,  70. 
Athens  and  Ion,  61. 
Author,  the — 

diary  quoted  on  Carpaccio's  at  Milan  (Sept.  6,  1876),  1  S.  114. 
drawings  of  St.  George's  viper  (1872),  1  S.  97. 

11      of  Carpaccio's  parrot,  1  S.,  98. 

"      earliest,  of  St.  Mark's,  62. 
errors  of  his  early  teaching,  48. 

feelings  of,  in  advancing  years,  not  disabled  but  enabled,  2  S.  125. 

knowledge  of  Greek  myths,  62  n. 

plan  for  collecting  records  of  St.  Mark's,  87  n. 

protestantism  of  (see  tl  religion  "). 

religion  and  early  religious  teaching,  21,  62-63. 

"       its  effect  on  his  early  work  in  Venice,  48. 
teaching  of,  not  a  discoverer,  2  S.  126,  127. 

"       abhors  doctrine  for  proof,  system  for  usefulness,  2  S.  126. 

"       a  utrue  master,"  ib. 


182 


INDEX. 


teaching  his  disciples  not  "  Ruskinians,"  but  free,  126. 
books  of,  referred  to — 

Ariadne  Florentina,  p.  (203)  70. 
Examples  of  Venetian  Architecture,  71. 
Fors  Clavigera,  purchasable  in  Venice,  36  n. 

"        "  iii.  Feb.  (on  St.  George),  36  n. 

"        "  iv.,  p.  125  ('Punch'),  60  n. 

"        "         vi.  110,  178-203  (on  Psalm  lxxvi.),  23. 

"         u  vii.  75,  gondolier  and  dog,  53. 

"        "  vii.  68,  on  St.  Theodore,  24. 

Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret,  pref.  4. 

St.  Mark's  Rest,  delay  in  issue  of  2d  Supplement,  2  S.  155  n. 
"  u    scheme  of  and  plans  for,  iv.,  8  n. 

"  "    sold  in  Venice,  36  n. 

"  u    style  of,  pref.  3. 

"  "    Supplement  L,  why  issued,  1  S.  pref.  91,  92. 

Stones  of  Venice,  errors  of,  and  Author's  Protestantism,  64. 
«  "      quoted,  129,  147,  44  n. 

**  M      republication  of,  planned,  pref.  4. 

"  H      St.  Mark s,  description  of,  62. 


Baldwin,  king  of  Jerusalem,  9. 
Baptism  of  Christ  (St.  Mark  s  mosaic),  164. 
Baptist,  the,  Life  of  (St.  Mark's  mosaic),  159. 
Bari,  William  of,  at  siege  of  Tyre,  12. 
Baruch's  roll,  pref.  3. 

Basilicans,  the  only  order  of  the  Greek  Church,  171. 

Basilisk,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  98. 

Bellini,  Gentile,  picture  of  Venice,  47. 

Bellini,  Gentile,  picture  of  St.  Mark's  facade,  69,  70,  73. 

Bellini  Giovanni,  vaults  of,  69,  70. 

"  "        Correr  Museum  (Transfiguration),  1  S.  120  n. 

"  "        Dictures  by  in  the  Frari,  St.  Zaccaria,  1  S.  117. 

Bewick,  1  S.  117.  * 
Bible  quoted  — 


Genesis  xxi   173 

Numbers  xvi.  13   56 

2  Kings  ii.  12   172 

"      xxv.  7     55 

Proverbs  iii.  17  IS.  106 

vii.  5, 17   61 

Psalm  ii.  7   174 

"     xlv.8   61 

"     lxxii.  10.  11   166 

"     lxxvi.  (Vulgate  and  Italian 

versions)   7 

Song  of  Solomon  iii.  2,  3   174 

Isaiah  vii.  14   172 

"     xi.  8   84 

1     xxiii.  2   32 

Jeremiah  xvii.  9   49 

Ezekiel  i.   79  seq. 

xi.  16, 19,  22..   80 

Hosea  vi.  1   173 

Joel  ii.  29   174 

Obadiah2   175 

Jonah  ii.  2     175 


Zephaniah  iii.  8   172 

St.  Matthew  ii.  2  :  166 

ii.  16   167 

iii.  16,  17   165 

v.  8-11   86 

x.  22   85 

St.  Mark  vi.  21,  26   165 

xvi.  15,  16  176 

St.  Luke  i.  9,  11   160 

21-22..   160 

63   ib. 

80   162 

"      xiv.  33   1  S.  100 

xix.  8   1  S.  101 

"      xix.  17   1  S.  102 

St.  John  i.  25   ...  163 

"     i.  29   159 

"     xix.  26-27   ib. 

Romans  v.  12   1  S.  106 

Galatians  ii.  20   84 

1  Thess.  ii.  18   2  S.  153 

Rev.  iv.  8...    83,179 


INDEX. 


183 


Birds,  chased  by  Venetian  boys,  54 ;  legend  of,  and  churches  of  Ven- 
ice, $. 
Bolton  Abbey,  30. 
Bribery,  60. 

Brides  of  Venice,  1  S.  95. 
British  Museum,  Cotton  MS.,  pref.  3. 
Buckle's  civilization,  20. 
Byzantine  art,  mythical,  74. 

14         "    St.  Mark's  typical  of,  65. 
Byzantium  conquered  by  Venice,  65. 

Camerlenghi,  treasurers  of  Venice,  26. 

Cape  of  Good  Hope,  discovery  of,  ruins  Venice,  27. 

Capitals,  laws  of  their  treatment,  17,  19 

"       of  twelfth  to  fourteenth  centuries,  17,  20. 
Cardinals,  Carpaccio's  satire  on,  1  S.  118. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  R.'s  master,  1  S.  128. 

"  "  Early  Kings  of  Norway  "  quoted,  56  n. 

"  Sterling,  Life  of,  1  S.  103  ;  and  of  Werner,  103. 

Carpaccio:  (1)  General  Characteristics  of  his  Art,  1  S.  113  ;  Its  Charac- 
teristics, 115  ;  (2)  Details  of  his  pictures ;  (3)  Particular 
pictures. 

(1)  General  Characteristics  of  Ids  Art : — 
composition  of,  1  S.  99. 

details  have  important  meanings  with,  1.  S.  107. 
and  Luini,  1  S.  116. 

religion,  as  animating  the  present  world,  1  S.  122  n. 
satire  of,  1  S.  118,  121. 

sense  of  humour,  and  power  of  seriousness,  1  S.  102. 
simplicity,  strength,  and  joy,  1  S.  96-97. 
study  of,  feelings  requisite  to  the,  1  S.  113. 
symbolism,  1  S.  121. 

(2)  Details  of  Ms  Pictures : — 
arabesques  (S.  Tryphonius),  i.  S.  99. 
dogs,  i.  S.  99. 

parrot,  i.  S.  99. 

signatures  of,  lovely,  i.  S.  106. 
vaults  of,  69,  70. 

(3)  Particular  Pictures  of: — 
Agony  in  the  Garden,  i.  S.  100. 

St.  George  and  Dragon  series,  24  ;  IS.  98  seq.,  108  ;  2  S.  133 
seq. 

St.  Jerome,  1  S.  104,  106,  108. 

St.  Mary  and  Elizabeth  (Correr  Museum),  1  S.  119. 

St.  Matthew,  calling  of  (St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni),  1  S.  100. 

St.  Stephen  (Brera  Gallery,  Milan),  1  S.  114. 

St.  Tryphonius  (St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni),  1  S.  99. 

St.  Ursula  series  (Accademia,  Venice),  1  S.  119,  121. 

Venetian  ladies  and  their  pets  (Correr  Museum),  in  what  sense 

the  best  existing  picture,  1  S.  116. 
Virgin  (Brera  Gallery,  Milan\  1  S.  114, 
youthful  sketches  by,  St.  Alvise,  i.  S.  111. 


184 


INDEX, 


Carpets,  Eastern,  1  S.  96. 

Catholicism,  mediseval,  as  shown  by  Carpaccio,  1  S.  120. 

Ceilings  painted,  Venice,  1  S.  111. 

Cephalonia,  taken  by  Venice,  1  S.  99. 

Cerberus,  Dante's,  24. 

Charity,  St  Mark's  mosaic,  85. 

Cheese,  lessons  in  capital  carving,  by  use  of,  18  seq. 

Cherubim,  the  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  66. 

Chivalry,  places  of  animals  in,  24. 

of  Venice  and  the  West,  a.d.  1100,  56. 
Chomley,  Countess  Isabel,  legend  translated  by,  52  n. 
Christ  and  the  Angels,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  163. 

11     and  the  Apostles,       44  44  67. 

44     baptism  of,  "  44  164. 

44     infancy  of,  44  44  166. 

44     and  the  Prophets,      44  *4  172. 

4  4     modern  lives  of,  84. 

44  4  4  saves  the  lost,"  1  S.  101. 
Christianity,  development  of,  50. 
Churches  of  Venice,  legend  of  their  foundation,  52. 

4  4  4  4      guide  to  points  of  compass  in,  35  n. 

See  4  Venice,'  and  under  names  of  particular  churches,  28. 
Churchyards,  53. 
Cimabue,  68. 

Classical  learning  and  Venice,  46. 
Clermont-Ganneau  on  St.  George,  S.  127. 
Cockneyism,  9,  64,  86,  99. 

Coinage,  leathern  of  Doge  Domenico,  Michiel,  8. 
Colour,  Venetian  feeling  for,  58. 

Corner,  Flaminio,  on  St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni,  1  S.  93. 
Correr  Museum,  woodcut  maps  of  Venice  (1480)  in,  21. 

44  *'        Carpaccio's  kk  Venetian  Ladies,"  1  S.  117. 

Cotton  MS.,  British  Museum,  pref.  vi.  51. 
Creusa  (Euripides'  44  Ion  "),  62  n. 
Croiset's  office  of  the  B.  V.  M.,  22. 
Crowe  and  Cavalcasella,  1  S.  105,  112,  113. 
Crucifixion,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  98. 
Crusades,  Venice  and  the,  44. 
Customs,  blinding  of  deposed  Doges,  55. 

44      pillage  of  palace  on  election  of  Doge,  59  n. 
Cybele,  temple  of,  169. 


Dalmatia,  attacked  by  Byzantium,  13. 

Damascus,  and  siege  of  Tyre>  12,  10. 

Dandolo,  Doge  Andrea,  chronicle  of,  11,  12,  65  n. 

4  4  4  4  legend  of  Venetian  Churches,  51,  52. 

44  44  his  tomb,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  52  n. 

44  Henry,  70 ;  adorns  church  of  St.  James  of  the  Rialto,  28. 
Dante's  grasp  of  theology,  24. 

44      Cerberus  (Canto  vi.),  24. 
Darwinism,  17,  1  S.  99. 
Dates,  recollection  of,  25,  43. 
David,  piety  and  soldiership  of,  60. 


INDEX. 


David,  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  157. 

,4  44  44    ,  eastern  dome,  74. 

Death,  commonplace  about  blessedness  of,  1  S.  106. 
Decoration,  not  4  a  superficial  merit/  19. 
De  Hooghe,  chiaroscuro  of,  1  S.  117. 
Delphi,  oracle  of,  pref.  4. 
Dogs,  Carpaccio's,  St.  George's,  1  S.  99. 

44        St.  Jerome's,  24,  1  S.  104. 
Doges,  blinding  of  five  deposed,  421-1100,  55. 

44     election  of  (Doge  Selvo),  58  seq. 

44    See  under  Domenico  Michiel,  St.  Pietro  Urseolo,  Selvo. 
Doge's  palace,  pillage  of,  on  election  of  Doge,  59,  60  n. 
Domenico,  Michiel,  Doge,  13. 

44  4  4      and  conquest  of  Tyre,  8  seq. 

44  4  4       dismantles  his  ships,  12  n. 

44  44       leathern  coinage  of,  12. 

4  4  4  4      seizes  Egean  isles  and  Cephalonia,  13. 

4  4  4  4       closing  years  and  death,  14. 

44  44      tomb  of  (San  Giorgio  Maggiore),  14. 

Doubt,  religious  feeling  of,  50  seq. 
Dragon,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  101,  2  S.  132. 
Drapery,  good  and  bad,  37. 
Ducal  Palace,  see  4  Venice — Ducal  Palace/  16, 
Dumas,  1  S.  112. 

Diirer's  engraving  of  St.  Mark's  Lion,  20. 
Durham  Cathedral,  20. 


Edinburgh,  Prince's  street,  asphalted,  31  n. 
Egean  islands,  seized  by  Venice,  13. 
Egypt,  dragon  of,  23,  26. 

44     flight  into,  167. 
Egypt,  gods  of,  121. 

44      and  siege  of  Tyre,  11,  12. 
Eliab,  sons  of,  55. 

Elijah,  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  173. 
Emerson  referred  to,  35. 

England,  abbeys  of,  their  quiet  peace,  1  S.  96. 

44       classical  architecture  of,  40. 

44       commerce,  36,  64. 

44  44         and  greed  of  money,  8. 

44       religion  of,  1200-1400,  50. 
Euripides1  '  Ion '  quoted,  61  n. 
Europe,  course  of  history,  46. 
Evangelical  doctrine  of  salvation,  1  S.  101. 
Evangelion  and  prophecy,  78. 
Evangelists,  the,  beasts  of  the,  83. 

4  44     (St.  Mark's  mosaics),  82,  164. 

44        gospels  of,  1  S.  100. 
44        sculpture  of  (St.  Mark's),  35. 
Executions,  between  Piazzetta  pillars,  17. 
Eyes,  putting  out  the,  55. 
Ezekiel's  vision,  78. 


186 


INDEX. 


Faith  and  reason,  50. 

Fathers,  the  Greeks  and  Latin,  168  seq. 

Fawn  in  Carpaccio's  ■*  Virgin,'  Brera,  Milan,  1  S.  115. 

Fishing  in  early  Venice,  51. 

Florence,  sacred  pictures  of,  1  S.  122. 

"       Spezieria  of  S.  M.  Novella,  61. 
Forks,  thought  a  luxury,  61. 
4  Fors  '  and  the  author,  54. 

"      ordering  of  events  by,  S.  127. 
Foscarini,  on  Doge  Selvo's  election,  59  n. 
France,  religion  of,  1150-1350,  50. 

Gabriel,  Archangel,  St.  Marks  bas-reliefs,  34. 

Geryon,  1  S.  97. 

Gesta  Dei,  quoted,  10,  11  n. 

Giotto's  chapel  at  Assisi,  1  S.  111. 

Giocondo,  Fra,  makes  designs  for  Venice  after  1513  fire,  28. 

Giorgione's  frescoes,  26  ;  arrangement  of  masses,  1  S.  109. 

Giustina,  church  to  S.,  founded,  53. 

Gordon,  Rev.  O.,  on  Ps.  lxxxvi.,  23. 

Goschen,  Mr.,  1  S.  101. 

Gothic,  foilage,  origin  of  Venetian,  43. 

Greek  acanthus,  71. 

"     art,  but  one  school  of,  65. 

"      "   its  aim,  first  instruction,  then  beauty,  66. 

"     capitals,  18. 

"     harpy,  68. 

"     myths  (Euripides  and  Pindar),  61  n. 

"     temple  of  the  Dew,  60. 

"     Thronos  on  St.  Mark's,  35. 

"     work  on  St.  Mark  s,  42,  43,  61,  65. 
Guiscard,  and  Doge  Selvo,  57  seq. 

u       li  the  soldier  par  excellence  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  60. 
Gunpowder,  51. 

Heraclea,  Venetian  villas  at,  51. 
Hercules,  42  ;  labours  of,  St.  Mark's  bas-relief,  33. 
Herod  and  St.  John  Baptist,  67,  165  ;  and  the  wise  men,  166. 
Herodias,  type  of  evil  womanhood,  69. 
Historians,  sectarianism  of,  48. 
History,  the  course  of  European,  46. 
41       transitional  period  of,  32. 

u       the  materials  of,  a  nation's  acts,  words,  and  art,  pref.  p.  4. 

"       how  to  read,  50. 
Holbein's  jewel-painting,  1  S.  118. 
Horses  of  St.  Mark,  69,  70. 
Hunt,  William,  31. 

Idleness,  evils  of,  51. 
Infidelity,  signs  of,  in  art,  38. 

<k        modern,  50. 
Innocents,  Holy  (St.  Mark's  Mosaics),  168. 
Inscription  on  St.  James  di  Rialto,  27. 


INDEX. 


187 


Inscription  on  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  84. 

u  "  Baptistery,  157-179  passim. 

Inscription  on  tomb  of  Doge  Domenico  Micliiel,  14. 
Inspiration  and  the  Church,  1  S.  121. 
Ion  and  Athens,  65. 
Irish  decoration,  71. 

<:    savagery,  56. 
Italian  revolution  and  Venice,  13. 

Jameson,  Mrs.  1  Legendary  Art,'  quoted,  178. 
Jeremiah,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  173. 
Jerusalem,  Holy  Sepulchre,  arches  of  the,  71. 

"         Baldwin,  king  of,  at  Venice,  8. 
Johnson,  Dr.,  penance  of,  64 

Jones,  E.  Burne,  helps  R.  re  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  87. 
Jordan,  river  god  of  the,  164. 

Kensington  schools,  1  S.  99. 
Knight,  a,  of  the  15th  century,  37. 

Landseer,  Sir  E.,  7. 

Latrator  Anubis,  15  seq.;  meaning  of,  22. 
Legenda  Aurea,  the,  on  St.  George,  2  S.  149. 
Legend  of  foundation  of  Venetian  churches,  52. 
Leucothea,  54. 

Lindsay,  Lord,  1  Christian  Art '  of,  63. 
Lion,  St.  Jerome's,  24. 

"    St.  Mark's,  Venice  (see  St.  Mark's). 
London,  fire  of,  7  ;  the  Monument,  8 ;  Nelson  column,  8. 
Longhena's  tomb  of  Doge  Dom.  Michiel,  14. 
Lord's  Prayer,  the,  and  mediaeval  chivalry,  49. 
Lorenzi,  M.,  helps  H. ,  59  n. 
Lotteries  in  old  and  new  Venice,  17  n. 
Luini  and  Carpaccio,  1  S.  114,  115,  116. 
Luxury,  medieval,  how  symbolized,  1  S.  118. 

"       of  Venice,  and  her  fate,  44. 
Lydda,  church  of  St.  George  at,  2  S.  132. 

Madonna  on  St.  James  di  Rialto,  28,  29. 

Mantegna's  u  Transfiguration, "  Correr  Museum,  1  S.  119. 

"         St.  Sebastian,  1  S.  121. 
Mariegola,  of  St.  Theodore,  21,  24. 
Mazorbo,  54. 
Memnon,  35. 
Merlin,  60. 
M.  Angelo,  pref.  4. 

Milan,  Monasterio  Maggiore,  Luini's  St.  Stephen,  1  S.  114. 
Milan,  Brera  Gallery,  Carpaccio's  in,  1  S.  114. 
Modesty,  St.  Mark's  mosaic,  95. 

Monasticism,  as  explained  by  Carpaccio's  St.  Jerome,  1  S,  86, 105, 106, 
Mosaics,  of  St.  Marias  (see  under  "  Venice—St.  Mark's"),  157. 
Muratori's  edition  of  Sanuto,  8  n. 
Murray,  C,  F.,  1  S.  102,  1  S.  115,  1  S.  119. 


188 


INDEX. 


Murray,  John,  Guide  to  Venice,  on  Piazzetta  pillars,  7. 

"  "  "  St.  James  di  Rialto,  29,  80. 

"  "  "  St.  Mark's  Lion>  78. 

i '  Sketches  of  Venetian  History,  8. 

Napoleon  L,  8. 

Natalis  Regia,  rebuilds  St.  James  di  Rialto,  1531,  29. 
Nelson  column,  8. 

Nicholas  of  the  Barterers,  sets  up  Piazzetta  pillars,  17. 
Norman  architecture,  savagery  of,  18. 
Northumbrian  architecture,  clumsy  work  in,  18. 

Oath  of  Venetian  magistrates  at  Tyre,  13. 

Olaf ,  blinds  King  Rserik,  56  n. 

Oxford  schools,  author's  drawings  at,  1  S.  96,  97. 

Pall  Mall,  51. 
Palladio,  14. 

Palm  trees,  in  Carpaccios  St.  George,  meaning  of,  2  S.  148. 
Paris,  Vendome  column,  7. 
Parliament,  English,  party  politics,  8. 
Parrot,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  97. 
Parthenon  bas-reliefs,  35. 

Perfumes,  use  of,  61  ;  manufacture  of  by  Florentine  monks,  ib. 

Perseus  and  St.  George,  2  S.  133. 

Persia  and  St.  George,  2  S.  134. 

Perugia,  canopy  at,  69. 

Perugino,  1  S.  102. 

Petroleum,  50. 

Piazzetta  pillars  (see  under  "Venice — Piazzetta  pillars ''},  7. 

Pindar,  and  Greek  myths,  61  n. 

Political  Economy,  50. 

Practice  with  fingers  teaches  eyes,  18. 

Prayer  Book,  quoted,  83. 

Printing,  discovery  of,  50 ;  and  Venice,  41. 

Progress,  modern,  in  Venice,  30 ;  and  inventions,  46. 

Prophets,  mosaics  of,  St.  Mark's  altar- dome,  81  ;  baptistery,  1681 

Proportion  and  propriety,  distinct,  15. 

Protestantism,  'private  judgment,'  21,  22,  62,  63,  1  S.  103,  120. 
1  Punch,'  on  Bishop  Wilberforce,  60;  March  15,  1879,  64. 
PurpLe,  Byzantine,  82. 

Rahab,  meaning  of  in  Ps.  Ixxxvi.,  23. 

Raphael,  teaching  of  in  art,  39  (see  "  S.  Raphael"). 

Reason  and  Faith,  50. 

*  Red  and  White  Clouds,'  chap.  vi. 

Religion,  of  early  Christian  chivalry,  49. 

"      and  doubt,  47  seq. 

"      stage  between  faith  and  reason,  50. 

*'      of  Venice,  40  seq.  ;  the  keynote  (with  art)  of  her  history,  41 

Renaissance,  and  revival  of  learning,  46. 
Restoration,  evil  of,  illustrated,  70. 
Rialto,  meaning  of,  30,  31. 


INDEX. 


189 


Rivers,  named  from  colour  or  clearness,  rarely  from  depth,  30. 
Roman  Empire  and  Venice,  43. 

Romanin,  on.  13  ;  on  Rialto,  30,  31 ;  on  Selvo's  election,  59  n. 

Rosamond  and  her  father's  skull,  50. 

Rubens,  1  S.  104. 

Ruskin,  Mr.    See  Author." 


Sabra  and  St.  George,  37. 

44  her  symbolical  meaning,  2  S.  151. 

Saint  Alvise.  Venice,  ceiling  of,  1  S.  111. 

44  Ambrose,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery.  171. 

"  Anthony           44           u  168. 

44  Athanasius        "           44  170. 

44  Augustine         14           44  171. 

44  Basil               44           44  171. 

44  Cuthbert's  book,  pref.  3. 

44  Demetrius,  St.  Mark's  bas-relief,  42  ;  warrior  saint,  170. 

44  Donato's  body  brought  to  Venice,  14. 

44  Francis  and  the  birds,  54. 

44  Gabriel,  St.  Mark  s  bas-relief,  42. 

44  George,  his  function  and  meaning,  21,  170  ;  2  S.  138. 

44  44       history  of,  2  S.  126  seq. 

C4  44       and  the  princess,  legend  quoted,  2  S.  150. 

44  44       connection  with  Perseus,  and  Persia,  2  S.  134. 

44  44       horse  of,  its  colour,  by  Carpaccio  and  Tintoret,  2  S.  138. 

44  4  4       pictures  of,  Carpaccio's,  23,  1  S.  96  seq.,  97. 

44  44       Porphyrio,  44  Bird  of  Chastity,"  24. 

4  4  44      sculptures  of,  in  Venice,  33,  35,  37,  38,  42. 

44  4  4       44  sheathing  his  sword,"  35. 

44  44       shield  of,  burnished,  2  S.  12. 

44  George's  Museum,  Sheffield,  casts  of  St.  Mark's,  70. 

44  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni  {see  41  Carpaccio,"  and  44  Venice 

44  Maggiore,  8. 

44  Giovanni  in  Bragola,  church  to,  founded,  57. 

'<   ,  e  Paolo,  tombs  in  church  of.  14. 

44  Giustina,  church  to,  founded,  53. 

44  Gregory  the  Great,  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  171. 

«   Nazianzen  4'  44  170. 

44  Isidore's  body  brought  to  Venice,  14. 

44  4*     (St.  Mark's  mosaic),  158  and  n. 

44  James  di  Rialto,  history  of,  26  seq  ,  chap.  iii. 

44  4  4             inscription  on,  28,  87.  ) 

44  4  4                   4  4  discovered  bv  author,  76. 

44  44             interior  of,  28. 

44  Jerome,  no  good  biography  of,  1  S.  104. 

Carpaccio's  pictures  of,  1  S.  101  seq.  (lion)  ;  106  (burial) ; 

107  (in  Heaven), 
his  lion  and  dog,  24. 
mosaic  of  St.  Mark's  Baptistery,  170. 


it 


44       44        teaching  of,  22  ;  1  S.  104. 


John  Chrysostom  (mosaic),  170. 
44  Louis'  part  of  Venice,  1  S.  111. 
44    Maria  Formosa,  church  to,  founded,  52. 


INDEX. 


Saint  Mark,  recovery  of  his  body  (mosaic  of),  76. 

"    Mark's  church,  etc.,  Venice  (see  "Venice,  St.  Mark's"). 
11    Matthew,  calling  of,  1  8.  100 ;  gospel  of,  1  S.  100. 
"    Mercury,  122. 

"    Nicholas  of  the  Lido,  57  ;  mosaic  of,  167. 

"    Pietro  Urseolo,  Doge,  169. 

*'    Raphael,  church  of,  founded,  52. 

u    Stephen,  Carpaccio's,  Brera,  Milan,  1  S.  114. 

u    Theodore,  7. 

"         "         his  body  at  Venice,  1450,  24. 

"         '*         '  'the  chair  seller,"  33,  iv.  ;  meaning  of,  42. 

"         u         church  to,  on  site  of  St.  Mark's,  83. 

<k         "         mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's,  170. 

u         *'         patron  of  Venice,  21. 

u         u         statue  of,  Piazzetta  pillar,  15. 

"         "  "        St.  Salvador,  89. 

"         "         his  teaching,  21,  24. 

"    Tryphonius  and  the  Basilisk,  Carpaccio's,  1  S.  99  ;  2  S.  129. 

(<    Zaccaria,  church  of,  founded,  52. 
Salt-works  of  early  Venice,  51. 
Samplers,  English,  1  S.  96. 
Samson  and  Delilah,  61. 
'  Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus,'  157,  179. 
Sand,  George,  1  S.  103,  112. 
Sansovino,  on  election  of  Doge  Selvo,  58. 

"        rebuilds  at  Venice,  1513,  27. 
Sanuto,  Marin,  2-5. 

Scarpagnino  rebuilds  at  Venice,  1513,  27. 

Scepticism,  modern,  79. 

Science,  modern,  its  effect  on  belief,  48-51. 

Sclavonians  and  Venice,  1  S.  95. 

Scott,  Sir.  W.,  u  Fortunes  of  Nigel,"  its  moral,  17  n. 

"  a  Talisman,"  its  errors,  65. 

Sculpture  above  Poiite  dei  Baratteri,  36. 

"       rise  and  fall  of  Venetian,  chap,  iv.,  37. 
Selvo,  Doge,  history  of,  56  seq.  (see  St.  George,  sculpture  of). 

"       mosaics  of  St.  Mark's,  78. 

"       rebuilds  St.  James  di  Bialto,  1073,  28. 

"       wife  of,  Greek,  60. 
*  Shadow  on  the  Dial,'  the,  chap.  5. 
Shafts  and  capitals,  relations  of,  15. 
Shakspere,  Hamlet,  48. 

"        King  Lear,  blinding  of  Gloster  in,  55. 
44       Merchant  of  Venice  (Shylock),  25. 

"        Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  '  If  I  should  as  lion,'  1  S.  102. 

M       Much  Ado  abont  Nothing  (Dogberry),  36. 

"        Romeo  and  Juliet,  'Ask  for  him  to-morrow,'  1  S.  102. 
Sheffield,  author's  plans  for,  11. 
Shells,  in  Carpaccio  s  '  St.  George,'  2  S.  145. 
Ships,  dismantling  of  Venetian,  12. 
Skull,  in  Carpaccio's  'St.  George,'  2  S.  148. 
Smoke  pestilence,  modern,  54. 
Snyders,  1  S.  104. 


INDEX. 


191 


Solomon,  love  of  fine  things,  GO. 

»'      St.  Mark's  mosaics,  82,  174. 

"       Queen  of  Sheba  and,  Carpaccio' s,  35,  1  S.  116. 
Sorrow,  feeling  under,  47  seq. 
Spirals,  Greek  and  Northern,  71. 
Spoon,  story  of  child's  love  for  a  wooden,  76. 
Symbolism,  growth  of,  in  art,  37,  38. 

Tempera,  use  of,  1  S.  117  ;  by  Carpaccio  and  Tintoret,  ib. 
Temptation,  the,  mosaic  of,  St.  Mark's,  75. 
Thrones,  of  the  world,  38- 
Theories  of  belief,  47,  48  seq. 
Tiepolo's  ceiling,  St.  Alvise,  1  S.  111. 
Tintoret,  '  mightiest  of  the  Venetians/  pref.  4. 
"       death  of,  and  fall  of  Venice  (1594),  44. 
"        1  rushing  force  '  of,  1  S.  102. 
"        studied  Carpaccio,  2  S.  129. 
11       tempera  used  by,  and  R/s  praise  of,  1  S.  117. 
Titian,  color  of,  1  S.  117. 
"      frescoes  of,  26. 
u      religion  of,  assumed,  pref.  3. 
Trade,  modern,  50. 

Trades  of  Venice,  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  74. 

Tree,  removal  of,  from  before  Accademia,  Venice  (Feb.,  1877),  31. 
Turner,  could  not  beat  Carpaccio  s  paroquet,  1  S.  119. 
Tyre,  burden  of,  chap.  i. 

44    siege  of,  chap,  i.,  p.  7,  10-12  ;  surrender  of,  12. 

"    oath  of  Venetian  magistrates  at,  13. 

Upholstery,  modern,  1  S.  112. 
Van  Eyck,  detail  of,  1  S.  117. 

Venice  :  (1)  Her  Character  and  Art ;  (2)  Her  History  ;  (3)  Architecture, 
Painting,  and  Sculpture  ;  (4)  Modern  Venice. 

(1)  Her  Character  and  her  Art: — 

Her  ambition,  its  objects,  7,  10. 

li    aristocracy,  its  growth,  46. 

"    art,  the  best  material  for  her  history,  pref.  4. 

"  "  its  growth  shown,  34  seq.,  39,  41,  75  ;  recapitulated,  42 
aspect  of  early,  63. 

change  from  Eastern  to  Western  temper,  20. 

character,  love  of  home,  of  animals,  of  colour,  53  seq. 

chivalry  learnt  from  Normans,  43,  45. 

Christianity  of,  learnt  from  Greeks,  43. 

commerce,  24,  26. 

council,  in  deciding  on  war,  9. 

deliberateness  of  action,  56. 

doges,  treatment  of  deposed,  55-8. 

fall  of,  44,  46  ;  and  gambling,  17. 

intellectual  death  of,  41. 

modern  debasement,  42. 

home  life  of  early,  53. 


192 


INDEX. 


Venice  {continued) — 

people  of,  mosaic  of  doge  and,  77. 
piety  and  covetousness  of,  8. 

religion  of,  1300-1500,  chap,  v.,  43  seq.;  1  S.  prof, 
relics,  at  last  despised  by,  27. 
revival  of  learning  and,  46. 
Rome's  influence  on,  46. 
understand,  how  to,  21-49. 

(2)  Her  History  :— 

progressive,  hut  its  periods  distinct,  32. 
four  periods  of,  (a)  formation,  421-1100,  43. 

(b)  establishment,  1100-1301,  43-44 

(c)  meditation,  1301-1520,  44. 

(d)  luxury  and  fall,  1520-1600. 
tells  her  own  story,  33. 

errors  of  her  historians,  32. 

religion  and  arts,  its  keynotes,  44. 

alliance  with  Alexis  against  Guiscard,  57. 

conquers  Byzantium,  13. 

colonies  in  Asia,  13. 

fire  of  1513,  27. 

founded,  421,  25. 

war  with  Guiscard,  57  seq. 

mercenary  army,  27. 

war  with  Saracens,  9  seq.,  10. 

Serrar  del  Consiglio  (period  ii.),  44-47. 

conquers  Tyre,  12. 

(3)  Architecture,  Painting,  and  Sculpture  of: — 

Academy,  Carpaccio's  St.  Ursula,  1  S.  119. 
Camerlenghi  Palace,  26. 
Ducal  Palace  built,  45. 

 pillars  of  arcade  baseless,  and  why,  15,  16. 

 capitals  of  upper  arcade,  16. 

Foscari  Palace,  sunset,  31. 
Gobbo  di  Rialto,  28  n. 
Grand  Canal  at  sunset,  31. 
Jean  d'Aere  pillars,  71. 
Labia,  palace,  40. 
Merceria,  26-36, 
Piazzetta,  pillars  of  the,  7. 


a 

CI 

the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  7  ;  and  why,  15. 

it 

(C 

capitals  and  bases  of,  16,  17  (history  of  not 

known). 

« 

tt 

date  of  (12th  century),  18. 

CC 

a 

famous  and  why,  7  seq. 

CC 

u 

history  of,  15,  17. 

(4 

a 

match  each  other,  and  how,  16. 

CC 

a 

St.  Theodore  and  St.  Mark's  Lion,  on,  20,  21. 

CC 

%i 

space  between,  how  used,  17. 

u 

a 

steps  of  restored,  16  n. 

INDEX. 


193 


Venice  (continued) — 

Ponte  de'  Barrateri,  sculpture  near  the,  36. 
St.  Alvise,  ceiling  of,  1  S.  111. 
St.  Antonin,  campo  di,  1  S.  93. 
St.  Bartholomew's  Square,  26. 
St.  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni,  24. 

44  44         foundation  of,  1,  S.  94  ;  S.  1. 

44  44  interior  of,  1,  S.  95,  and  see  "Car 

paccio." 

 Maggiore,  8,  14,  15. 

St.  James  di  Rialto,  42  seq. ;  history  of,  27. 

St.  John  Eleemosynario,  campanile,  28. 

St.  Julian,  36. 

St.  Louis'  Quarter,  1  S.  111. 

St.  Margaret  s  Campo,  31. 

St.  Mark's  Church,  built,  45. 

44  44       baptistery  of,  67  seq.;  plan  of,  160;  mosaics, 

157  seq. 

44  44       campanile,  lotteries  beneath,  17  n. 

44  44       facade  of,  34. 

"  44  44  temp.  Gentile  Bellini,  69. 

44  44       horses  of,  69. 

4  4  44       noithwest  corner  of,  sculpture  of  apostles,  35. 

44  44       porches  of,  bas-reliefs  on,  42. 

44  44       tomb  of  Doge  A.  Dandolo,  52. 

44  44       mosaics  of,  82. 

44  44  44       designs  of  Veronese,  73. 

44  44  4  4       collection  of  records  of,  157. 

44  44  44       central  archivolt,  bad,  71. 

44  44  44       baptistery,  67  seq.,  158. 

44  44  44  4  4        their     connection  ancl 

meaning,  179. 
44  44  44       central  dome,  74,  101. 

44  44  44       east  dome,  84. 

44  44  44       north  transept,  75. 

44  44  44       south  transept,  76. 

44  44       sculptures,  central  archivolt,  70  seq. 

44  44  44        of  foliage,  70. 

44  44  44        of  sheep  and  lamb,  northwest  cor* 

ner,  38. 

44  44  44        left  of  central  arch,  34. 

 Lion,  78. 

 Place,  nowadays,  59. 

St.  Pantaleone,  ceiling,  1  S.  112. 

St.  Pietro  Castello,  cathedral  church  of  Venice,  52. 

St.  Raphael,  church  of,  founded.  52. 

St.  Salvadore,  church  of,  founded,  52  ;  piazza  of,  39. 

(4)  Modern  Venice : — 

church,  and  campo,  53. 
destruction  of  old  by  new,  26 ,  pref.  6. 
dirt  of,  26. 
hotels  of,  26.  . 


11)4 


INDEX. 


Venice  {continued) — 
lighting  of,  14. 
lotteries  of,  17  and  n. 
progress  of,  59. 
restaurants  of  10  n. 
sails  of,  10  n. 
steamers  in,  10. 

tree  cut  down  before  Academy  (Feb.  26,  1877),  31. 
Veronese,  P.,  designs  some  of  St.  Mark's  mosaics,  75,  1  S.  98-103. 

<k  mischief  done  by,  1  S.  111. 

Virgil,  quoted,  Aen.,  viii.  698,  23. 
Virgin,  Carpaccio's  Brera  Gallery,  Milan,  1  S.  114. 

"       St.  Marks  bas-reliefs,  42. 
Virtues,  on  St.  Mark's  central  dome  mosaics,  96, 

14       and  the  seven  gems,  Carpaccio's  St.  George,  2  S.  150. 

M       Venetian,  95. 
Vivarini,  76. 

Wealth,  evils  of,  50. 
Wise  men,  the,  166. 

Wordsworth's  1  White  Doe  of  Kylstone,'  53. 

Zacharias,  mosaic,  St.  Mark's,  161. 
Zara,  siege  of,  8. 
Zedekiah,  blinding  of5  56 


LECTURES  ON  ART 

DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD  fcj 
HILARY  TERM,  1870 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


LECTURE  I. 

INAUGUEAL. 

The  duty  which  is  to-day  laid  on  me,  of  introducing,  among 
the  elements  of  education  appointed  in  this  great  University, 
one  not  only  new,  but  such  as  to  involve  in  its  possible  re- 
sults some  modification  of  the  rest,  is,  as  you  well  feel,  so 
grave,  that  no  man  could  undertake  it  without  laying  himself 
open  to  the  imputation  of  a  kind  of  insolence ;  and  no  man 
could  undertake  it  rightly,  without  being  in  danger  of  having 
his  hands  shortened  by  dread  of  his  task,  and  mistrust  of 
himself. 

And  it  has  chanced  to  me,  of  late,  to  be  so  little  acquainted 
either  with  pride,  or  hope,  that  I  can  scarcely  recover  so  much 
as  I  now  need  of  the  one  for  strength,  and  of  the  other  for 
foresight,  except  by  remembering  that  noble  persons,  and 
friends  of  the  high  temper  that  judges  most  clearly  where  it 
loves  best,  have  desired  that  this  trust  should  be  given  me ; 
and  by  resting  also  in  the  conviction  that  the  goodly  tree, 
whose  roots,  by  God's  help,  we  set  in  earth  to-day,  will  not 
fail  of  its  height  because  the  planting  of  it  is  under  poor  aus- 
pices, or  the  first  shoots  of  it  enfeebled  by  ill  gardening. 

2.  The  munificence  of  the  English  gentleman  to  whom  we 
owe  the  founding  of  this  Professorship  at  once  in  our  three 
great  Universities,  has  accomplished  the  first  great  group  of  a 
series  of  changes  now  taking  gradual  effect  in  our  system  of 
public  education  ;  and  which,  as  you  well  know,  are  the  sign 
of  a  vital  change  in  the  national  mind,  respecting  both  the 
principles  on  which  that  education  should  be  conducted,  and 


198 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


the  ranks  of  society  to  which  it  should  extend.  For,  whereag 
it  was  formerly  thought  that  the  discipline  necessary  to  form 
the  character  of  youth  was  best  given  in  the  study  of  abstract 
branches  of  literature  and  philosophy,  it  is  now  thought  that 
the  same,  or  a  better,  discipline  may  be  given  by  informing 
men  in  early  years  of  things  it  cannot  but  be  of  chief  practical 
advantage  to  them  afterwards  to  know  ;  and  by  permitting  to 
them  the  choice  of  any  field  of  study  which  they  may  feel  to 
be  best  adapted  to  their  personal  dispositions.  I  have  always 
used  what  poor  influence  I  possessed  in  advancing  this  change  ; 
nor  can  any  one  rejoice  more  than  I  in  its  practical  results. 
Bat  the  completion— I  will  not  venture  to  say,  correction — of 
a  system  established  by  the  highest  wisdom  of  noble  ances- 
tors, cannot  be  too  reverently  undertaken  :  and  it  is  necessary 
for  the  English  people,  who  are  sometimes  violent  in  change 
in  proportion  to  the  reluctance  with  which  they  admit  its 
.necessity,  to  be  now  oftener  than  at  other  times  reminded 
that  the  object  of  instruction  here  is  not  primarily  attain- 
ment, but  discipline  ;  and  that  a  youth  is  sent  to  our  Univer- 
sities, not  (hitherto  at  least)  to  be  apprenticed  to  a  trade,  nor 
even  always  to  be  advanced  in  a  profession  ;  but,  always,  to  be 
made  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar. 

3.  To  be  made  these, — if  there  is  in  him  the  making  of 
either.  The  populace  of  all  civilized  countries  have  lately 
been  under  a  feverish  impression  that  it  is  possible  for  all  men 
to  be  both  ;  and  that  having  once  become,  by  passing  through 
certain  mechanical  processes  of  instruction,  gentle  and  learned, 
they  are  sure  to  attain  in  the  sequel  the  consummate  beatitude 
of  being  rich. 

Rich,  in  the  way  and  measure  in  which  it  is  well  for  them 
to  be  so,  they  may,  without  doubt,  all  become.  There  is  in- 
deed a  land  of  Havilah  open  to  them,  of  which  the  wonderful 
sentence  is  literally  true — c  The  gold  of  that  land  is  good.5 
But  they  must  first  understand,  that  education,  in  its  deepest 
sense,  is  not  the  equalizer,  but  the  discerner,  of  men ;  and  that, 
so  far  from  being  instruments  for  the  collection  of  riches,  the 
first  lesson  of  wisdom  is  to  disdain  them,  and  of  gentleness, 
to  diffuse. 


INAUGURAL. 


189 


It  is  not  therefore,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  yet  possible  for 
all  men  to  be  gentlemen  and  scholars.  Even  under  the  best 
training  some  will  remain  too  selfish  to  refuse  wealth,  and 
some  too  dull  to  desire  leisure.  But  many  more  might  be  so 
than  are  now ;  nay,  perhaps  all  men  in  England  might  one 
day  be  so,  if  England  truly  desired  her  supremacy  among  the 
nations  to  be  in  kindness  and  in  learning.  To  which  good 
end,  it  will  indeed  contribute  that  we  add  some  practice  of 
the  lower  arts  to  our  scheme  of  University  education  ;  but  the 
thing  which  is  vitally  necessary  is,  that  we  should  extend  the 
spirit  of  University  education  to  the  practice  of  the  lower  arts. 

4.  And,  above  all,  it  is  needful  that  we  do  this  by  redeem- 
ing them  from  their  present  pain  of  self- contempt,  and  by 
giving  them  rest.  It  has  been  too  long  boasted  as  the  pride 
of  England,  that  out  of  a  vast  multitude  of  men  confessed  to 
be  in  evil  case,  it  was  possible  for  individuals,  by  strenuous 
effort,  and  singular  good  fortune,  occasionally  to  emerge  into 
the  light,  and  look  back  with  self-gratulatory  scorn  upon  the 
occupations  of  their  parents,  and  the  circumstances  of  their 
infancy.  Ought  we  not  rather  to  aim  at  an  ideal  of  national 
life,  when,  of  the  employments  of  Englishmen,  though  each 
shall  be  distinct,  none  shall  be  unhappy  or  ignoble  ;  when 
mechanical  operations  acknowledged  to  be  debasing  in  their 
tendency,  shall  be  deputed  to  less  fortunate  and  more  covetous 
races ;  when  advance  from  rank  to  rank,  though  possible  to 
all  men,  may  be  rather  shunned  than  desired  by  the  best ; 
and  the  chief  object  in  the  mind  of  every  citizen  may  not  be 
extrication  from  a  condition  admitted  to  be  disgraceful,  but 
fulfilment  of  a  duty  which  shall  be  also  a  birthright  ? 

5.  And  then,  the  training  of  all  these  distinct  classes  will 
not  be  by  Universities  of  all  knowledge,  but  by  distinct 
schools  of  such  knowledge  as  shall  be  most  useful  for  every 
class :  in  which,  first  the  principles  of  their  special  business 
may  be  perfectly  taught,  and  whatever  higher  learning,  and 
cultivation  of  the  faculties  for  receiving  and  giving  pleasure, 
may  be  properly  joined  with  that  labour,  taught  in  connection 
with  it.  Thus,  I  do  not  despair  of  seeing  a  School  of  Agri- 
culture, with  its  fully-endowed  institutes  of  zoology,  botany. 


200 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


and  chemistry  ;  and  a  School  of  Mercantile  Seamanship,  with 
its  institutes  of  astronomy,  meteorology,  and  natural  history 
of  the  sea  :  and,  to  name  only  one  of  the  finer,  I  do  not  say 
higher,  arts,  we  shall,  I  hope,  in  a  little  time,  have  a  perfect 
school  of  Metal-work,  at  the  head  of  which  will  be,  not  the 
ironmasters,  but  the  goldsmiths  ;  and  therein,  I  believe,  that 
artists,  being  taught  how  to  deal  wisely  with  the  most  pre- 
cious of  metals,  will  take  into  due  government  the  uses  of  all 
others  ;  having  in  connection  with  their  practical  work  splen- 
did institutes  of  chemistry  and  mineralogy,  and  of  ethical  and 
imaginative  literature. 

And  thus  I  confess  myself  more  interested  in  the  final  issue 
of  the  change  in  our  system  of  central  education,  which  is  to- 
day consummated  by  the  admission  of  the  manual  arts  into 
its  scheme,  than  in  any  direct  effect  likely  to  result  upon  our- 
selves from  the  innovation.  But  I  must  not  permit  myself  to 
fail  in  the  estimate  of  my  immediate  duty,  while  I  debate 
what  that  duty  may  hereafter  become  in  the  hands  of  others  ; 
and  I  will  therefore  now,  so  far  as  I  am  able,  lay  before  you  a 
brief  general  view  of  the  existing  state  of  the  arts  in  England, 
and  of  the  influence  which  her  Universities,  through  these 
newly-founded  lectureships,  may,  I  think,  bring  to  bear  upon 
it  for  good. 

6.  And  first,  we  have  to  consider  the  impulse  which  has 
been  given  to  the  practice  of  all  the  arts  of  which  the  object 
is  the  production  of  beautiful  things,  by  the  extension  of  our 
commerce,  and  of  the  means  of  intercourse  with  foreign  na- 
tions, by  which  we  now  become  more  familiarly  acquainted 
with  their  works  in  past  and  in  present  times.  The  immedi- 
ate result  of  this  new  knowledge  has  been,  I  regret  to  say,  to 
make  us  more  jealous  of  the  genius  of  others,  than  conscious 
of  the  limitations  of  our  own  ;  and  to  make  us  rather  desire 
to  enlarge  our  wealth  by  the  sale  of  art,  than  to  elevate  our 
enjoyments  by  its  acquisition. 

Now,  whatever  efforts  we  make,  with  a  true  desire  to  pro- 
duce, and  possess,  as  themselves  a  constituent  part  of  true 
wealth,  things  that  are  intrinsically  beautiful,  have  in  them  at 
least  one  of  the  essential  elements  of  success.    But  efforts 


INAUGURAL. 


201 


having  origin  only  in  the  hope  of  enriching  ourselves  by  the 
sale  of  our  productions,  are  assuredly  condemned  to  dishon- 
ourable failure  ;  not  because,  ultimately  a  well-trained  nation 
may  not  profit  by  the  exercise  of  its  peculiar  art-skill ;  but 
because  that  peculiar  art-skill  can  never  be  developed  with  a 
view  to  profit.  The  right  fulfilment  of  national  power  in  art 
depends  always  on  the  direction  of  its  aim  by  the  experience 
of  ages.  Self-knowledge  is  not  less  difficult,  nor  less  neces- 
sary for  the  direction  of  its  genius,  to  a  people  than  to  an  in- 
dividual, and  it  is  neither  to  be  acquired  by  the  eagerness  of 
unpractised  pride,  nor  during  the  anxieties  of  improvident 
distress.  No  nation  ever  had,  or  will  have,  the  power  of  sud- 
denly developing,  under  the  pressure  of  necessity,  faculties  it 
had  neglected  when  it  was  at  ease  ;  nor  of  teaching  itself  in 
poverty,  the  skill  to  produce,  what  it  has  never  in  opulence 
had  the  sense  to  admire. 

7.  Connected  also  with  some  of  the  worst  parts  of  our 
social  system,  but  capable  of  being  directed  to  better  result 
than  this  commercial  endeavour,  we  see  lately  a  most  power- 
ful impulse  given  to  the  production  of  costly  works  of  art  by 
the  various  causes  which  promote  the  sudden  accumulation 
of  wealth  in  the  hands  of  private  persons.  We  have  thus  a 
vast  and  new  patronage,  which,  in  its  present  agency,  is  inju- 
rious to  our  schools  ;  but  which  is  nevertheless  in  a  great  de- 
gree earnest  and  conscientious,  and  far  from  being  influenced 
chiefly  by  motives  of  ostentation.  Most  of  our  rich  men 
would  be  glad  to  promote  the  true  interests  of  art  in  this 
country  ;  and  even  those  who  buy  for  vanity,  found  their 
vanity  on  the  possession  of  what  they  suppose  to  be  best. 

It  is  therefore  in  a  great  measure  the  fault  of  artists  them- 
selves if  they  suffer  from  this  partly  unintelligent,  but 
thoroughly  well-intended  patronage.  If  they  seek  to  attract 
it  by  eccentricity,  to  deceive  it  by  superficial  qualities,  or 
take  advantage  of  it  by  thoughtless  and  facile  production, 
they  necessarily  degrade  themselves  and  it  together,  and 
have  no  right  to  complain  afterwards  that  it  will  not  acknowl- 
edge better-grounded  claims.  But  if  every  painter  of  real 
power  would  do  only  what  he  knew  to  be  worthy  of  himself, 


202 


LECTURES  OJST  ART 


and  refuse  to  be  involved  in  the  contention  for  undeserved  or 
accidental  success,  there  is  indeed,  whatever  may  have  been 
thought  or  said  to  the  contrary,  true  instinct  enough  in  the 
public  mind  to  follow  such  firm  guidance.  It  is  one  of  the 
facts  which  the  experience  of  thirty  years  enables  me  to 
assert  without  qualification,  that  a  really  good  picture  is  ulti- 
mately always  approved  and  bought,  unless  it  is  wilfully  ren- 
dered offensive  to  the  public  by  faults  which  the  artist  has 
been  either  too  proud  to  abandon,  or  too  weak  to  correct. 

8.  The  development  of  whatever  is  healthful  and  service- 
able in  the  two  modes  of  impulse  which  we  have  been  con?- 
sidering,  depends  however,  ultimately,  on  the  direction  taken 
by  the  true  interest  in  art  which  has  lately  been  aroused 
by  the  great  and  active  genius  of  many  of  our  living,  or  but 
lately  lost,  painters,  sculptors,  and  architects.  It  may  perhaps 
surprise,  but  I  think  it  will  please  you  to  hear  me,  or  (if  you 
will  forgive  me,  in  my  own  Oxford,  the  presumption  of  fancy- 
ing that  some  may  recognize  me  by  an  old  name)  to  hear  the 
author  of  '  Modern  Painters 9  say,  that  his  chief  error  in  ear- 
lier days  was  not  in  over-estimating,  but  in  too  slightly  ac- 
knowledging the  merit  of  living  men.  The  great  painter 
whose  power,  while  he  was  yet  among  us,  I  was  able  to  per- 
ceive, was  the  first  to  reprove  me  for  my  disregard  of  the  skill 
of  his  fellow-artists ;  and,  with  this  inauguration  of  the  study 
of  the  art  of  all  time, — a  study  which  can  only  by  true  modesty 
end  in  wise  admiration, — it  is  surely  well  that  I  connect  the 
record  of  these  words  of  his,  spoken  then  too  truly  to  myself, 
and  true  always  more  or  less  for  all  who  are  untrained  in 
that  toil, — f  You  don't  know  how  difficult  it  is.' 

You  will  not  expect  me,  within  the  compass  of  this  lecture, 
to  give  you  any  analysis  of  the  many  kinds  of  excellent  art  (in 
all  the  three  great  divisions)  which  the  complex  demands  of 
modern  life,  and  yet  more  varied  instincts  of  modern  genius, 
have  developed  for  pleasure  or  service.  It  must  be  my  en- 
deavour, in  conjunction  with  my  colleagues  in  the  other 
Universities,  hereafter  to  enable  you  to  appreciate  these 
worthily  ;  in  the  hope  that  also  the  members  of  the  Royal 
A  cademy,  and  those  of  the  Institute  of  British  Architects,  may 


INAUGURAL. 


203 


'be  induced  to  assist,  and  guide,  the  efforts  of  the  Universities, 
by  organizing  such  a  system  of  art  education  for  their  own 
students  as  shall  in  future  prevent  the  waste  of  genius  in  any 
mistaken  endeavours ;  especially  removing  doubt  as  to  the 
proper  substance  and  use  of  materials  ;  and  requiring  com- 
pliance with  certain  elementary  principles  of  right,  in  every 
picture  and  design  exhibited  with  their  sanction.  It  is  not 
indeed  possible  for  talent  so  varied  as  that  of  English  artists  to 
be  compelled  into  the  formalities  of  a  determined  school ;  but 
it  must  certainly  be  the  function  of  every  academical  body  to 
see  that  their  younger  students  are  guarded  from  what  must 
in  every  school  be  error  ;  and  that  they  are  practised  in  the 
best  methods  of  work  hitherto  known,  before  their  ingenuity 
is  directed  to  the  invention  of  others. 

9.  I  need  scarcely  refer,  except  for  the  sake  of  completeness 
in  my  statement,  to  one  form  of  demand  for  art  which  is 
wholly  unenlightened,  and  powerful  only  for  evil  ; — namely, 
the  demand  of  the  classes  occupied  solely  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  for  objects  and  modes  of  art  that  can  amuse  in- 
dolence or  satisfy  sensibility.  There  is  no  need  for  any  dis- 
cussion of  these  requirements,  or  of  their  forms  of  influence, 
though  they  are  very  deadly  at  present  in  their  operation  on 
sculpture,  and  on  jewellers'  work.  They  cannot  be  checked 
by  blame,  nor  guided  by  instruction  ;  they  are  merely  the 
necessary  results  of  whatever  defects  exist  in  the  temper  and 
principles  of  a  luxurious  society  ;  and  it  is  only  by  moral 
changes,  not  by  art-criticism,  that  their  action  can  be  modified. 

10.  Lastly,  there  is  a  continually  increasing  demand  for 
popular  art,  multipliable  by  the  printing-press,  illustrative  of 
daily  events,  of  general  literature,  and  of  natural  science. 
^Admirable  skill,  and  some  of  the  best  talent  of  modern  times, 
are  occupied  in  supplying  this  want ;  and  there  is  no  limit  to 
the  good  which  may  be  effected  by  rightly  taking  advantage 
of  the  powers  we  now  possess  of  placing  good  and  lovely  art 
within  the  reach  of  the  poorest  classes.  Much  has  been  already 
accomplished  ;  but  great  harm  has  been  done  also, — first,  by 
forms  of  art  definitely  addressed  to  depraved  tastes;  and, 
secondly,  in  a  more  subtle  wTay,  by  really  beautiful  and  useful 


204 


LECTURES  OK  ART. 


engravings  which  are  yet  not  good  enough  to  retain  their  xn< 
fluence  on  the  public  mind  ; — which  weary  it  by  redundant 
quantity  of  monotonous  average  excellence,  and  diminish  or 
destroy  its  power  of  accurate  attention  to  work  of  a  higher 
order. 

Especially  this  is  to  be  regretted  in  the  effect  produced  on 
the  schools  of  line  engraving,  which  had  reached  in  England 
an  executive  skill  of  a  kind  before  unexampled,  and  which  of 
late  have  lost  much  of  their  more  sterling  and  legitimate 
methods.  Still,  I  have  seen  plates  produced  quite  recently, 
more  beautiful,  I  think,  in  some  qualities  than  anything  ever 
before  attained  by  the  burin  :  and  I  have  not  the  slightest 
fear  that  photography,  or  any  other  adverse  or  competitive 
operation,  will  in  the  least  ultimately  diminish, — I  believe 
they  will,  on  the  contrary,  stimulate  and  exalt — the  grand  old 
powers  of  the  wood  and  the  steel. 

11.  Such  are,  I  think,  briefly  the  present  conditions  of  art 
with  which  we  have  to  deal ;  and  I  conceive  it  to  be  the  func- 
tion of  this  Professorship,  with  respect  to  them,  to  establish 
both  a  practical  and  critical  school  of  fine  art  for  English  gen- 
tlemen :  practical,  so  that  if  they  draw  at  all,  they  may  draw 
rightly  ;  and  critical,  so  that  they  may  both  be  directed  to 
such  works  of  existing  art  as  will  best  reward  their  study ; 
and  enabled  to  make  the  exercise  of  their  patronage  of  living 
artists  delightful  to  themselves  by  their  consciousness  of  its 
justice,  and,  to  the  utmost,  beneficial  to  their  country,  by  be- 
ing given  only  to  the  men  who  deserve  it ;  and,  to  those,  in 
the  early  period  of  their  lives,  when  they  both  need  it  most, 
and  can  be  influenced  by  it  to  the  best  advantage. 

12.  And  especially  with  reference  to  this  function  of  patron- 
age, I  believe  myself  justified  in  taking  into  account  future 
probabilities  as  to  the  character  and  range  of  art  in  England ; 
and  I  shall  endeavour  at  once  to  organize  with  you  a  system 
of  study  calculated  to  develop  chiefly  the  knowledge  of  those 
branches  in  which  the  English  schools  have  shown,  and  are 
likely  to  show,  peculiar  excellence.  Now,  in  asking  your 
sanction  both  for  the  nature  of  the  general  plans  I  wish  to 
adopt,  and  for  what  I  conceive  to  be  necessary  limitations  of 


IN  A  UG  URAL. 


205 


them,  I  wish  you  to  be  fully  aware  of  my  reasons  for  both : 
and  1  will  therefore  risk  the  burdening  of  your  patience  while 
I  state  the  directions  of  effort  in  which  I  think  English  artists 
are  liable  to  failure,  and  those  also  in  which  past  experience 
has  shown  they  are  secure  of  success. 

13.  I  referred,  but  now,  to  the  effort  we  are  making  to  im- 
prove the  designs  of  our  manufactures.  Within  certain  limits 
I  believe  this  improvement  may  indeed  take  effect :  so  that 
we  may  no  more  humour  momentary  fashions  by  ugly  results 
of  chance  instead  of  design  ;  and  may  produce  both  good  tis- 
sues, of  harmonious  colours,  and  good  forms  and  substance 
of  pottery  and  glass.  But  we  shall  never  excel  in  decorative 
design.  Such  design  is  usually  produced  by  people  of  great 
natural  powers  of  mind,  who  have  no  variety  of  subjects  to 
employ  themselves  on,  no  oppressive  anxieties,  and  are  in  cir- 
cumstances, either  of  natural  scenery  or  of  daily  life,  which 
cause  pleasurable  excitement.  We  cannot  design  because  we 
have  too  much  to  think  of,  and  we  think  of  it  too  anxiously.  It 
has  long  been  observed  how  little  real  anxiety  exists  in  the 
minds  of  the  partly  savage  races  which  excel  in  decorative 
art ;  and  we  must  not  suppose  that  the  temper  of  the  middle 
ages  was  a  troubled  one,  because  every  day  brought  its  dan- 
ger or  its  changes.  The  very  eventfulness  of  the  life  ren- 
dered it  careless,  as  generally  is  still  the  case  with  soldiers 
and  sailors.  Now,  when  there  are  great  powers  of  thought, 
and  little  to  think  of,  all  the  waste  energy  and  fancy  are 
thrown  into  the  manual  work,  and  you  have  as  much  intellect 
as  would  direct  the  affairs  of  a  large  mercantile  concern  for  a 
day,  spent  all  at  once,  quite  unconsciously,  in  drawing  an  in- 
genious spiral. 

Also,  powers  of  doing  fine  oramental  work  are  only  to  be 
reached  by  a  perpetual  discipline  of  the  hand  as  well  as  of 
the  fancy  ;  discipline  as  attentive  and  painful  as  that  which  a 
juggler  has  to  put  himself  through,  to  overcome  the  more 
palpable  difficulties  of  his  profession.  The  execution  of  the 
best  artists  is  always  a  splendid  tour-de-force,  and  much  that 
in  painting  is  supposed  to  be  dependent  on  material  is  indeed 
only  a  lovely  and  quite  inimitable  legerdemain.    Now,  when 


206 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


powers  yl  fancy,  stimulated  by  this  triumphant  precision  of 
manual  dexterity,  descend  uninterruptedly  from  generation 
to  generation,  you  have  at  last,  what  is  not  so  much  a  trained 
artist  as  a  new  species  of  animal,  with  whose  instinctive  gifts 
you  have  no  chance  of  contending.  And  thus  all  our  imita- 
tions of  other  people's  work  are  futile.  We  must  learn  first 
to  make  honest  English  wares,  and  afterwards  to  decorate 
them  as  may  please  the  then  approving  Graces. 

14.  Secondly — and  this  is  an  incapacity  of  a  graver  kind, 
yet  having  its  own  good  in  it  also — we  shall  never  be  success- 
ful in  the  highest  fields  of  ideal  or  theological  art.  For 
there  is  one  strange,  but  quite  essential,  character  in  us :  ever 
since  the  Conquest,  if  not  earlier  : — a  delight  in  the  forms  of 
burlesque  which  are  connected  in  some  degree  with  the  foul- 
ness in  evil.  I  think  the  most  perfect  type  of  a  true  English 
mind  in  its  best  possible  temper,  is  that  of  Chaucer  ;  and  you 
will  find  that,  while  it  is  for  the  most  part  full  of  thoughts  of 
beauty,  pure  and  wild  like  that  of  an  April  morning,  there 
are  even  in  the  midst  of  this,  sometimes  momentarily  jesting 
passages  which  stoop  to  play  with  evil — while  the  power  of 
listening  to  and  enjoying  the  jesting  of  entirely  gross  persons, 
whatever  the  feeling  may  be  which  permits  it,  afterwards  de- 
generates into  forms  of  humour  which  render  some  of  quite 
the  greatest,  wisest,  and  most  moral  of  English  writers  now 
almost  useless  for  our  youth.  And  yet  you  will  find  that 
whenever  Englishmen  are  wholly  without  this  instinct,  their 
genius  is  comparatively  weak  and  restricted. 

15.  Now,  the  first  necessity  for  the  doing  of  any  great 
work  in  ideal  art,  is  the  looking  upon  all  foulness  with  horror, 
as  a  contemptible  though  dreadful  enemy.  You  may  easily 
understand  what  I  mean,  by  comparing  the  feelings  with 
which  Dante  regards  any  form  of  obscenity  or  of  base  jest, 
with  the  temper  in  which  the  same  things  are  regarded  by 
Shakespeare.  And  this  strange  earthly  instinct  of  ours, 
coupled  as  it  is,  in  our  good  men,  with  great  simplicity  and 
common  sense,  renders  them  shrewd  and  perfect  observers 
and  delineators  of  actual  nature,  low  or  high  ;  but  precludes 
them  from  that  specialty  of  art  which  is  properly  called  sub- 


INAUGURAL. 


207 


lime.  If  ever  we  try  anything  in  the  manner  of  Michael  An- 
gelo  or  of  Dante,  we  catch  a  fall,  even  in  literature,  as  Milton 
in  the  battle  of  the  angels,  spoiled  from  Hesiocl  :  while  in  art, 
every  attempt  in  this  style  has  hitherto  been  the  sign  either  of 
the  presumptuous  egotism  of  persons  who  had  never  realty 
learned  to  be  workmen,  or  it  has  been  connected  with  very 
tragic  forms  of  the  contemplation  of  death, — it  has  always 
been  partly  insane,  and  never  once  wholly  successful. 

But  we  need  not  feel  any  discomfort  in  these  limitations  of 
our  capacity.  We  can  do  much  that  others  cannot,  and  more 
than  we  have  ever  yet  ourselves  completely  clone.  Our  first 
great  gift  is  in  the  portraiture  of  living  people — a  power  already 
so  accomplished  in  both  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  that 
nothing  is  left  for  future  masters  but  to  add  the  calm 
of  perfect  workmanship  to  their  vigour  and  felicity  of  per- 
ception. And  of  what  value  a  true  school  of  portraiture 
may  become  in  the  future,  when  worthy  men  will  desire  only 
to  be  known,  and  others  will  not  fear  to  know  them  for  what 
they  truly  were,  we  cannot  from  any  past  records  of  art  influ- 
ence yet  conceive.  But  in  my  next  address  it  will  be  partly  my 
endeavour  to  show  you  how  much  more  useful,  because  more 
humble,  the  labour  of  great  masters  might  have  been,  had 
they  been  content  to  bear  record  of  the  souls  that  were  dwell- 
ing with  them  on  earth,  instead  of  striving  to  give  a  decep- 
tive glory  to  those  they  dreamed  of  in  heaven. 

16.  Secondly,  we  have  an  intense  power  of  invention  and 
expression  in  domestic  drama  ;  (King  Lear  and  Hamlet  being 
essentially  domestic  in  their  strongest  motives  of  interest). 
There  is  a  tendency  at  this  moment  towards  a  noble  develop- 
ment of  our  art  in  this  direction,  checked  by  many  adverse 
conditions,  which  may  be  summed  in  one, — the  insufficiency 
of  generous  civic  or  patriotic  passion  in  the  heart  of  the  Eng- 
lish people  ;  a  fault  which  makes  its  domestic  affections  self- 
ish, contracted,  and,  therefore,  frivolous. 

17.  Thirdly,  in  connection  with  our  simplicity,  and  good- 
humour,  and  partly  with  that  very  love  of  the  grotesque  which 
debases  our  ideal,  we  have  a  sympathy  with  the  lower  animals 
^bich  is  peculiarly  our  own  ;  and  which,  though  it  has  already 


208 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


found  some  exquisite  expression  in  the  works  of  Bewick  and 
Landseer,  is  yet  quite  undeveloped.  This  sympathy,  with  the 
aid  of  our  now  authoritative  science  of  physiology,  and  in  as- 
sociation with  our  British  love  of  adventure,  will,  I  hope,  ena- 
ble us  to  give  to  the  future  inhabitants  of  the  globe  an  almost 
perfect  record  of  the  present  forms  of  animal  life  upon  it,  of 
which  many  are  on  the  point  of  being  extinguished. 

Lastly,  but  not  as  the  least  important  of  our  special  powers,  I 
have  to  note  our  skill  in  landscape,  of  which  I  will  presently 
speak  more  particularly. 

18.  Such,  I  conceive,  to  be  the  directions  in  which,  princi- 
pally, we  have  the  power  to  excel  ;  and  you  mast  at  once  see 
how  the  consideration  of  them  must  modify  the  advisable 
methods  of  our  art  study.  For  if  our  professional  painters 
were  likely  to  produce  pieces  of  art  loftily  ideal  in  their  char- 
acter, it  would  be  desirable  to  form  the  taste  of  the  students 
here  by  setting  before  them  only  the  purest  examples  of  Greek, 
and  the  mightiest  of  Italian,  art.  But  I  do  not  think  you  will 
yet  find  a  single  instance  of  a  school  directed  exclusively  to 
these  higher  branches  of  study  in  England,  which  has  strongly, 
or  even  definitely,  made  impression  on  its  younger  scholars. 
While,  therefore,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out  clearly  the 
characters  to  be  looked  for  and  admired  in  the  great  masters 
of  imaginative  design,  I  shall  make  no  special  effort  to  stimu- 
late the  imitation  of  them  ;  and,  above  all  things,  I  shall  try 
to  probe  in  you,  and  to  prevent,  the  affectation  into  which  it 
is  easy  to  fall,  even  through  modesty, — of  either  endeavouring 
to  admire  a  grandeur  with  which  we  have  no  natural  sympa- 
thy, or  losing  the  pleasure  we  might  take  in  the  study  of 
familiar  things,  by  considering  it  a  sign  of  refinement  to  look 
for  what  is  of  higher  class,  or  rarer  occurrence. 

19.  Again,  if  our  artisans  were  likely  to  attain  any  distin- 
guished skill  in  ornamental  design,  it  would  be  incumbent 
upon  me  to  make  my  class  here  accurately  acquainted  with 
the  principles  of  earth  and  metal  work,  and  to  accustom  them 
to  take  pleasure  in  conventional  arrangements  of  colour  and 
form.  I  hope,  indeed,  to  do  this,  so  far  as  to  enable  them  to 
discern  the  real  merit  of  many  styles  of  art  which  are  at  pres« 


IN  A  UG  URAL. 


209 


ent  neglected  ;  and,  above  all,  to  read  the  minds  of  semi-bar- 
baric nations  in  the  only  language  by  which  their  feelings 
were  capable  of  expression  :  and  those  members  of  my  class 
whose  temper  inclines  them  to  take  pleasure  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  mythic  symbols,  will  not  probably  be  induced  to 
quit  the  profound  fields  of  investigation  which  early  art  exam- 
ined carefully,  will  open  to  them,  and  which  belong  to  it 
alone  ;  for  this  is  a  general  law,  that,  supposing  the  intellect 
of  the  workman  the  same,  the  more  imitatively  complete  his 
art,  the  less  he  will  mean  by  it ;  and  the  ruder  the  symbol,  the 
deeper  is  his  intention.  Nevertheless,  when  I  have  once  suf- 
ficiently pointed  out  the  nature  and  value  of  this  conventional 
work,  and  vindicated  it  from  the  contempt  with  which  it  is 
too  generally  regarded,  I  shall  leave  the  student  to  his  own 
pleasure  in  its  pursuit ;  and  even,  so  far  as  I  may,  discourage  all 
admiration  founded  on  quaintness  or  peculiarity  of  style  ;  and 
repress  any  other  modes  of  feeling  which  are  likely  to  lead 
rather  to  fastidious  collection  of  curiosities,  than  to  the  intel- 
ligent appreciation  of  work  which,  being  executed  in  compli- 
ance with  constant  laws  of  right,  cannot  be  singular,  and  must 
be  distinguished  only  by  excellence  in  what  is  always  de- 
sirable. 

20.  While,  therefore,  in  these  and  such  other  directions,  I 
shall  endeavour  to  put  every  adequate  means  of  advance  within 
reach  of  the  members  of  my  class,  I  shall  use  my  own  best 
energy  to  show  them  what  is  consummately  beautiful  and  well 
done,  by  men  who  have  past  through  the  symbolic  or  suggest- 
ive stage  of  design,  and  have  enabled  themselves  to  comply, 
by  truth  of  representation,  with  the  strictest  or  most  eager 
demands  of  accurate  science,  and  of  disciplined  passion.  I 
shall  therefore  direct  your  observation,  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  you  may  spare  to  me,  to  what  is  indisputably 
best,  both  in  painting  and  sculpture  ;  trusting  that  you  will 
afterwards  recognize  the  nascent  and  partial  skill  of  former 
days  both  with  greater  interest  and  greater  respect,  when  you 
know  the  full  difficulty  of  what  it  attempted,  and  the  complete 
range  of  what  it  foretold. 

21.  And  with  this  view,  I  shall  at  once  endeavour  to  do 


210 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


what  has  for  many  years  been  in  my  thoughts,  and  now,  with 
the  advice  and  assistance  of  the  curators  of  the  University  Gal- 
leries, I  do  not  doubt  may  be  accomplished  here  in  Oxford, 
just  where  it  will  be  pre-eminently  useful — namely,  to  arrange 
an  educational  series  of  examples  of  excellent  art,  standards 
to  which  you  may  at  once  refer  on  any  questionable  point,  and 
by  the  study  of  which  you  may  gradually  attain  an  instinctive 
sense  of  right,  which  will  afterwards  be  liable  to  no  serious 
error.  Such  a  collection  may  be  formed,  both  more  per- 
fectly, and  more  easily,  than  would  commonly  be  supposed. 
For  the  real  utility  of  the  series  will  depend  on  its  restricted 
extent, — on  the  severe  exclusion  of  all  second-rate,  superfluous, 
or  even  attractively  varied  examples, — and  on  the  confining 
the  student's  attention  to  a  few  types  of  what  is  insuperably 
good.  More  progress  in  power  of  judgment  may  be  made  in 
a  limited  time  by  the  examination  of  one  work,  than  by  the 
review  of  many  ;  and  a  certain  degree  of  vitality  is  given  to 
the  impressiveness  of  every  characteristic,  by  its  being  ex- 
hibited in  clear  contrast,  and  without  repetition. 

The  greater  number  of  the  examples  I  shall  choose  will  at 
first  not  be  costly  ;  many  of  them,  only  engravings  of  photo- 
graphs :  they  shall  be  arranged  so  as  to  be  easily  accessible, 
and  I  will  prepare  a  catalogue,  pointing  out  my  purpose  in 
the  selection  of  each.  But  in  process  of  time,  I  have  good 
hope  that  assistance  will  be  given  me  by  the  English  public 
in  making  the  series  here  no  less  splendid  than  serviceable  ; 
and  in  placing  minor  collections,  arranged  on  a  similar  princi- 
ple, at  the  command  also  of  the  students  in  our  public  schools. 

22.  In  the  second  place,  I  shall  endeavour  to  prevail  upon 
all  the  younger  members  of  the  University  w7ho  wish  to  attend 
the  art  lectures,  to  give  at  least  so  much  time  to  manual 
practice  as  may  enable  them  to  understand  the  nature  and 
difficulty  of  executive  skill.  The  time  so  spent  will  not  be 
lost,  even  as  regards  their  other  studies  at  the  University,  for 
I  will  prepare  the  practical  exercises  in  a  double  series,  one 
illustrative  of  history,  the  other  of  natural  science.  Ancl 
whether  you  are  drawing  a  piece  of  Greek  armour,  or  a  hawk's 
beak,  or  a  lion's  paw,  you  will  find  that  the  mere  necessity  of 


INAUGURAL. 


211 


rising  the  hand  compels  attention  to  circumstances  which 
would  otherwise  have  escaped  notice,  and  fasten  them  in  the 
memory  without  farther  effort.  But  were  it  even  otherwise, 
and  this  practical  training  did  really  involve  some  sacrifice  of 
your  time,  I  do  not  fear  but  that  it  will  be  justified  to  you  by 
its  felt  results  :  and  I  think  that  general  public  feeling  is  also 
tending  to  the  admission  that  accomplished  education  must 
include,  not  only  full  command  of  expression  by  language, 
but  command  of  true  musical  sound  by  the  voice,  and  of  true 
form  by  the  hand. 

23.  While  I  myself  hold  this  professorship,  I  shall  direct 
you  in  these  exercises  very  definitely  to  natural  history,  and 
to  landscape  ;  not  only  because  in  these  two  branches  I  am 
probably  able  to  show  you  truths  which  might  be  despised  by 
my  successors  ;  but  because  I  think  the  vital  and  joyful  study 
of  natural  history  quite  the  principal  element  requiring  intro- 
duction, not  only  into  University,  but  into  national,  educa- 
tion, from  highest  to  lowest  ;  and  I  even  will  risk  incurring 
your  ridicule  by  confessing  one  of  my  fondest  dreams,  that  I 
may  succeed  in  making  some  of  you  English  youths  like  bet- 
ter to  look  at  a  bird  than  to  shoot  it ;  and  even  desire  to  make 
wild  creatures  tame,  instead  of  tame  creatures  wild.  And  for 
the  study  of  landscape,  it  is,  I  think,  now  calculated  to  be  of 
use  in  deeper,  if  not  more  important  modes,  than  that  of  nat- 
ural science,  for  reasons  which  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  state 
at  some  length. 

24.  Observe  first ; — no  race  of  men  which  is  entirely  bred 
in  wild  country,  far  from  cities,  ever  enjoys  landscape.  They 
may  enjoy  the  beauty  of  animals,  but  scarcely  even  that :  a 
true  peasant  cannot  see  the  beauty  of  cattle  ;  but  only  the 
qualities  expressive  of  their  serviceableness.  I  waive  discussion 
of  this  to-day  ;  permit  my  assertion  of  it,  under  my  confident 
guarantee  of  future  proof.  Landscape  can  only  be  enjoyed 
by  cultivated  persons  ;  and  it  is  only  by  music,  literature,  and 
painting,  that  cultivation  can  be  given.  Also,  the  faculties 
which  are  thus  received  are  hereditary  ;  so  that  the  child  of 
an  educated  race  has  an  innate  instinct  for  beauty,  derived 
from  arts  practiced  hundreds  of  years  before  its  birth.  Now 


212 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


farther  note  this,  one  of  the  loveliest  things  in  human  nature. 
In  the  children  of  noble  races,  trained  by  surrounding  art, 
and  at  the  same  time  in  the  practice  of  great  deeds,  there  ia 
an  intense  delight  in  the  landscape  of  their  country  as  memo- 
rial; a  sense  not  taught  to  them,  nor  teachable  to  any  others  ; 
but,  in  them,  innate  ;  and  the  seal  and  reward  of  persistence 
in  great  national  life  ; — the  obedience  and  the  peace  of  "ages 
having  extended  gradually  the  glory  of  the  revered  ancestors 
also  to  the  ancestral  land  ;  until  the  Motherhood  of  the  dust, 
the  mystery  of  the  Demeter  from  whose  bosom  we  came,  and 
to  whose  bosom  we  return,  surrounds  and  inspires,  everywhere, 
the  local  awe  of  field  and  fountain  ;  the  sacredness  of  land- 
mark that  none  may  remove,  and  of  wave  that  none  may  pol- 
lute ;  while  records  of  proud  days,  and  of  dear  persons,  make 
every  rock  monumental  with  ghostly  inscription,  and  every 
path  lovely  with  noble  desolateness. 

25.  Now,  however  checked  by  lightness  of  temperament, 
the  instinctive  love  of  landscape  in  us  has  this  deep  root, 
which,  in  your  minds,  I  will  pray  you  to  disencumber  from 
whatever  may  oppress  or  mortify  it,  and  to  strive  to  feel  with 
all  the  strength  of  your  youth  that  a  nation  is  only  worthy  of 
the  soil  and  the  scenes  that  it  has  inherited,  when,  by  all  its 
acts  and  arts,  it  is  making  them  more  lovely  for  its  children. 

And  now,  I  trust,  you  will  feel  that  it  is  not  in  mere  yield- 
ing to  my  own  fancies  that  I  have  chosen,  for  the  first  three 
subjects  in  your  educational  series,  landscape  scenes  ; — two  in 
England,  and  one  in  France, — the  association  of  these  being 
not  without  purpose: — and  for  the  fourth,  Albert  Diirer's 
dream  of  the  Spirit  of  Labour.  And  of  the  landscape  sub- 
jects, I  must  tell  you  this  much.  The  first  is  an  engraving 
only  ;  the  original  drawing  by  Turner  was  destroyed  by  fire 
twenty  years  ago.  For  which  loss  I  wish  you  to  be  sorry,  and 
to  remember,  in  connection  with  this  first  example,  that  what- 
ever  remains  to  us  of  possession  in  the  arts  is,  compared  to 
what  we  might  have  had  if  we  had  cared  for  them,  just  what 
that  engraving  is  to  the  lost  drawing.  You  wTill  find  also  that 
its  subject  has  meaning  in  it  which  will  not  be  harmful  to 
you.    The  second  example  is  a  real  drawing  by  Turner,  in  the 


INAUGURAL. 


213 


same  series,  and  very  nearly  of  the  same  place  ;  the  two 
scenes  are  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  each  other.  It  will 
show  you  the  character  of  the  work  that  was  destroyed.  It 
will  show  you,  in  process  of  time,  much  more  ;  but  chiefly? 
and  this  is  my  main  reason  for  choosing  both,  it  will  be  a  per- 
manent expression  to  you  of  what  English  landscape  was 
once  ; — and  must,  if  we  are  to  remain  a  nation,  be  again. 

I  think  it  farther  right  to  tell  you,  for  otherwise  you  might 
hardly  pay  regard  enough  to  work  apparently  so  simple,  that 
by  a  chance  which  is  not  altogether  displeasing  to  me,  this 
drawing,  which  it  has  become,  for  these  reasons,  necessary  for 
me  to  give  you,  is — not  indeed  the  best  I  have,  (I  have  several 
as  good,  though  none  better) — but,  of  all  I  have,  the  one  I 
had  least  mind  to  part  with. 

The  third  example  is  also  a  Turner  drawing — a  scene  on  the 
Loire — never  engraved.  It  is  an  introduction  to  the  series  of 
the  Loire,  which  you  have  already  ;  it  has  in  its  present  place 
a  due  concurrence  with  the  expressional  purpose  of  its  com- 
panions ;  and  though  small,  it  is  very  precious,  being  a  fault- 
less, and,  I  believe,  unsurpassable  example  of  water-colour 
painting. 

Chiefly,  however,  remember  the  object  of  these  three  first 
examples  is  to  give  you  an  index  to  your  truest  feelings  about 
European,  and  especially  about  your  native  landscape,  as  it  is 
pensive  and  historical ;  and  so  far  as  you  yourselves  make 
any  effort  at  its  representation,  to  give  you  a  motive  for  fidel- 
ity in  handwork  more  animating  than  any  connected  with 
mere  success  in  the  art  itself. 

26.  With  respect  to  actual  methods  of  practice  I  will  not 
incur  the  responsibility  of  determining  them  for  you.  We 
will  take  Lionardo's  treatise  on  training  for  our  first  text- 
book ;  and  I  think  you  need  not  fear  being  misled  by  me  if  I 
ask  you  to  do  only  what  Lionardo  bids,  or  what  will  be  neces- 
sary to  enable  you  to  do  his  bidding.  But  you  need  not 
possess  the  book,  nor  read  it  through.  I  will  translate  the 
pieces  to  the  authority  of  which  I  shall  appeal ;  and.  in  proc- 
ess of  time,  by  analysis  of  this  fragmentary  treatise,  show 
you  some  characters  not  usually  understood  of  the  simplicity 


214 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


as  well  as  subtlety  common  to  most  great  workmen  of  that 
age.  Afterwards  we  will  collect  the  instructions  of  other  un- 
disputed masters,  till  wTe  have  obtained  a  code  of  laws  clearly 
resting  on  the  consent  of  antiquity. 

While,  however,  I  thus  in  some  measure  limit  for  the  pres- 
ent the  methods  of  your  practice,  I  shall  endeavour  to  make 
the  courses  of  my  University  lectures  as  wide  in  their  range  as 
my  knowledge  will  permit.  The  range  so  conceded  will  be 
narrow  enough  ;  but  I  believe  that  my  proper  function  is  not 
to  acquaint  you  with  the  general  history,  but  with  the  essen  - 
tial principles  of  art  ;  and  with  its  history  only  when  it  has 
been  both  great  and  good,  or  where  some  special  excellence 
of  it  requires  examination  of  the  causes  to  which  it  must  bo 
ascribed. 

27.  But  if  either  our  work,  or  our  enquiries,  are  to  be  in- 
deed successful  in  their  own  field,  they  must  be  connected 
with  others  of  a  sterner  character.  Now  listen  to  me,  if  I 
have  in  these  past  details  lost  or  burdened  your  attention ; 
for  this  is  what  I  have  chiefly  to  say  to  you.  The  art  of  any 
country  is  the  exponent  of  its  social  and  political  virtues.  I 
will  show  you  that  it  is  so  in  some  detail,  in  the  second  of  my 
subsequent  course  of  lectures  ;  meantime  accept  this  as  one  of 
the  things,  and  the  most  important  of  all  things,  I  can  positively 
declare  to  you.  The  art,  or  general  productive  and  formative 
energy,  of  any  country,  is  an  exact  exponent  of  its  ethical  life. 
You  can  have  noble  art  only  from  noble  persons,  associated 
under  laws  fitted  to  their  time  and  circumstances.  And  the 
best  skill  that  any  teacher  of  art  could  spend  here  in  your 
help,  would  not  end  in  enabling  you  even  so  much  as  rightly 
to  draw  the  water-lilies  in  the  Cherwell  (and  though  it  did, 
the  work  when  done  would  not  be  worth  the  lilies  themselves) 
unless  both  he  and  you  were  seeking,  as  I  trust  we  shall  to 
gether  seek,  in  the  laws  which  regulate  the  finest  industries, 
the  clue  to  the  laws  which  regulate  all  industries,  and  in  bet- 
ter obedience  to  which  we  shall  actually  have  henceforward 
to  live,  not  merely  in  compliance  with  our  own  sense  of  what 
is  right,  but  under  the  weight  of  quite  literal  necessity.  For 
the  trades  by  which  the  British  people  has  believed  it  to  be 


INAUGURAL. 


215 


the  highest  of  destinies  to  maintain  itself,  cannot  now  long  re- 
main  undisputed  in  its  hands  ;  its  unemployed  poor  are  daily 
becoming  more  violently  criminal  ;  and  a  searching  distress 
in  the  middle  classes,  arising  partly  from  their  vanity  in  liv- 
ing always  up  to  their  incomes,  and  partly  from  their  folly  in 
imagining  that  they  can  subsist  in  idleness  upon  usury,  will  at 
last  compel  the  sons  and  daughters  of  English  families  to  ac- 
quaint themselves  with  the  principles  of  providential  econ- 
omy ;  and  to  learn  that  food  can  only  be  got  out  of  the 
ground,  and  competence  only  secured  by  frugality  ;  and  that 
although  it  is  not  possible  for  all  to  be  occupied  in  the  highest 
arts,  nor  for  any,  guiltlessly,  to  pass  their  days  in  a  succes- 
sion of  pleasures,  the  most  perfect  mental  culture  possible  to 
men  is  founded  on  their  useful  energies,  and  their  best  arts 
and  brightest  happiness  are  consistent,  and  consistent  only, 
with  their  virtue. 

28.  This  I  repeat,  gentlemen,  will  soon  become  manifest  to 
those  among  us,  and  there  are  yet  many,  who  are  honest- 
hearted.  And  the  future  fate  of  England  depends  upon  the 
position  they  then  take,  and  on  their  courage  in  maintaining  it. 

There  is  a  destiny  now  possible  to  us — the  highest  ever  set 
before  a  nation  to  be  accepted  or  refused.  We  are  still  un- 
degenerate  in  race  ;  a  race  mingled  of  the  best  northern 
blood.  We  are  not  yet  dissolute  in  temper,  but  still  have  the 
firmness  to  govern,  and  the  grace  to  obey.  We  have  been 
taught  a  religion  of  pure  mercy,  which  we  must  either  now 
finally  betray,  or  learn  to  defend  by  fulfilling.  And  we  are 
rich  in  an  inheritance  of  honour,  bequeathed  to  us  through  a 
thousand  years  of  noble  history,  which  it  should  be  our  daily 
thirst  to  increase  with  splendid  avarice,  so  that  Englishmen, 
if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour,  should  be  the  most  offending 
souls  alive.  Within  the  last  few  years  we  have  had  the  laws 
of  natural  science  opened  to  us  with  a  rapidity  which  has 
been  blinding  by  its  brightness  ;  and  means  of  transit  and 
communication  given  to  us,  which  have  made  but  one  king- 
dom of  the  habitable  globe.  One  kingdom  ; — but  wdio  is  to 
be  its  king?  Is  there  to  be  no  king  in  it,  think  you,  and 
every  man  to  do  that  which  is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ?    Or  only 


21G 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


tings  of  terror,  and  the  obscene  empires  of  Mammon  and 
Belial  ?  Or  will  you,  youths  of  England,  make  your  country 
again  a  royal  throne  of  kings ;  a  sceptred  isle,  for  all  the 
world  a  source  of  light,  a  centre  of  peace  ;  mistress  of  Learn- 
ing and  of  the  Arts  ; — faithful  guardian  of  great  memories 
in  the  midst  of  irreverent  and  ephemeral  visions  ; — -faithful 
servant  of  time-tried  principles,  under  temptation  from  fond 
experiments  and  licentious  desires  ;  and,  amidst  the  cruel  and 
clamorous  jealousies  of  the  nations,  worshipped  in  her  strange 
valour,  of  goodwill  towards  men  ? 

29.  'Vexiila  regis  prodeunt.'  Yes,  but  of  which  king? 
There  are  the  two  oriflammes ;  which  shall  we  plant  on  the 
farthest  islands — the  one  that  floats  in  heavenly  fire,  or  that 
hangs  heavy  with  foul  tissue  of  terrestrial  gold  ?  There  is 
indeed  a  course  of  beneficent  glory  open  to  us,  such  as  never 
wras  yet  offered  to  any  poor  group  of  mortal  souls.  But  it 
must  be — it  is  with  us,  now,  'Beign  or  Die.'  And  if  it  shall 
be  said  of  this  country,  '  Fece  per  viltate,  il  gran  rifiuto  ;  ■ 
that  refusal  of  the  crown  will  be,  of  all  yet  recorded  in  history, 
the  shamefullest  and  most  untimely. 

And  this  is  what  she  must  either  do,  or  perish  :  she  must 
found  colonies  as  fast  and  as  far  as  she  is  able,  formed  of  her 
most  energetic  and  worthiest  men ; — seizing  every  piece  of 
fruitful  waste  ground  she  can  set  her  foot  on,  and  there  teach- 
ing these  her  colonists  that  their  chief  virtue  is  to  be  fidelity 
to  their  country,  and  that  their  first  aim  is  to  be  to  advance 
the  power  of  England  by  land  and  sea :  and  that,  though 
they  live  on  a  distant  plot  of  ground,  they  are  no  more  to 
consider  themselves  therefore  disfranchised  from  their  native 
land  than  the  sailors  of  her  fleets  do,  because  they  float  on 
distant  waves.  So  that  literally,  these  colonies  must  be  fast- 
ened  fleets,  and  every  man  of  them  must  be  under  authority 
of  captains  and  officers,  whose  better  command  is  to  be  over 
fields  and  streets  instead  of  ships  of  the  line  ;  and  England, 
in  these  her  motionless  navies  (or,  in  the  true  and  mightiest 
sense,  motionless  churches,  ruled  by  pilots  on  the  Galilean 
lake  of  all  the  world)  is  to  'expect  every  man  to  do  his  duty;' 
recognising  that  duty  is  indeed  possible  no  less  in  peace  than 


INAUGURAL. 


217 


war ;  and  that  if  we  can  get  men,  for  little  pay,  to  cast  them- 
selves against  cannon-mouths  for  love  of  England,  wre  may  lind 
men  also  who  will  plough  and  sow  for  her,  who  will  behave 
kindly  and  righteously  for  her,  who  will  bring  up  their  chil- 
dren to  love  her,  and  who  will  gladden  themselves  in  the 
brightness  of  her  glory,  more  than  in  all  the  light  of  tropic 
skies. 

But  that  they  may  be  able  to  do  this,  she  must  make  her  own 
majesty  stainless ;  she  must  give  them  thoughts  of  their  home 
of  which  they  can  be  proud.  The  England  who  is  to  be  mis- 
tress of  half  the  earth  cannot  remain  herself  a  heap  of  cinders, 
trampled  by  contending  and  miserable  crowds  ;  she  must  yet 
again  become  the  England  she  was  once,  and  in  all  beautiful 
ways  more  ;  so  happy,  so  secluded,  and  so  pure,  that  in  her 
sky — polluted  by  no  unholy  clouds — she  may  be  able  to  spell 
rightly  of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show ;  and  in  her  fields, 
ordered  and  wide  and  fair,  of  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew; 
and  under  the  green  avenues  of  her  enchanted  garden,  a  sacred 
Circe,  true  Daughter  of  the  Sun,  she  must  guide  the  human 
arts,  and  gather  the  divine  knowledge,  of  distant  nations,  trans- 
formed from  savageness  to  manhood,  and  redeemed  from  de- 
spairing into  Peace. 

30.  You  think  that  an  impossible  ideal.  Be  it  so  ;  refuse  to 
accept  it  if  you  will ;  but  see  that  you  form  your  own  in  its 
stead.  All  that  I  ask  of  you  is  to  have  a  fixed  purpose  of 
some  kind  for  your  country  and  yourselves  ;  no  matter  how 
restricted,  so  that  it  be  fixed  and  unselfish.  I  know  what 
stout  hearts  are  in  you,  to  answer  acknowledged  need  ;  but  it 
is  the  fatallest  form  of  error  in  English  youth  to  hide  their 
best  hardihood  till  it  fades  for  lack  of  sunshine,  and  to  act  in 
disdain  of  purpose,  till  all  purpose  is  vain.  It  is  not  by  delib- 
erate, but  by  careless  selfishness ;  not  by  compromise  with 
evil,  but  by  dull  following  of  good,  that  the  weight  of  national 
evil  increases  upon  us  daily.  Break  through  at  least  this  pre- 
tence of  existence  ;  determine  what  you  will  be,  and  what  you 
would  win.  You  will  not  decide  wrongly  if  you  resolve  to  de- 
cide at  all.  Were  even  the  choice  between  lawless  pleasure 
and  loyal  suffering,  you  would  not,  I  believe,  choose  basely. 


218 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


But  your  trial  is  not  so  sharp.  It  is  between  drifting  in  con- 
fused wreck  among  the  castaways  of  Fortune,  who  condemns 
to  assured  ruin  those  who  know  not  either  how  to  resist  her, 
or  obey  ;  between  this,  I  say,  and  the  taking  your  appointed 
part  in  the  heroism  of  Eest ;  the  resolving  to  share  in  the  vic- 
tory which  is  to  the  weak  rather  than  the  strong  ;  and  the 
binding  yourselves  by  that  law,  which,  thought  on  through 
lingering  night  and  labouring  day,  makes  a  man's  life  to  be 
as  a  tree  planted  by  the  water-side,  that  bringeth  forth  his 
fruit  in  his  season  ; — 

'  ET  FOLIUM  EJUS  NON  DEFLUET, 
ET  OMNIA,  QIL2ECUNQUE  FACIET,  PROSPERABUNTUR.5 


LECTURE  II. 

THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION. 

31.  It  was  stated,  and  I  trust  partly  with  your  acceptance, 
in  my  opening  lecture,  that  the  study  on  which  we  are  about 
to  enter  cannot  be  rightly  undertaken  except  in  furtherance 
of  the  grave  purposes  of  life  with  respect  to  which  the  rest  of 
the  scheme  of  your  education  here  is  designed.  But  you  can 
scarcely  have  at  once  felt  all  that  I  intended  in  saying  so  ; — • 
you  cannot  but  be  still  partly  under  the  impression  that  the 
so-called  fine  arts  are  merely  modes  of  graceful  recreation, 
and  a  new  resource  for  your  times  of  rest.  Let  me  ask  you, 
forthwith,  so  far  as  you  can  trust  me,  to  change  your  thoughts 
in  this  matter.  All  the  great  arts  have  for  their  object  either 
the  support  or  exaltation  of  human  life, — usually  both  ;  and 
their  dignity,  and  ultimately  their  very  existence,  depend  on 
their  being  '  fxera  Xoyou  uXrfiovqJ  that  is  to  say,  apprehending, 
with  right  reason,  the  nature  of  the  materials  they  work  with, 
of  the  things  they  relate  or  represent,  and  of  the  faculties  to 
which  they  are  addressed.  And  farther,  they  form  one  united 
system  from  which  it  is  impossible  to  remove  any  part  with- 
out harm  to  the  rest.    They  are  founded  first  in  mastery,  by 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  219 


strength  of  arm,  of  the  earth  and  sea,  in  agriculture  and  sea- 
manship ;  then  their  inventive  power  begins,  with  the  clay  in 
the  hand  of  the  potter,  whose  art  is  the  humblest,  but  truest 
type  of  the  forming  of  the  human  body  and  spirit ;  and  in 
the  carpenter's  work,  which  probably  was  the  early  employ- 
ment of  the  Founder  of  our  religion.  And  until  men  have 
perfectly  learned  the  laws  of  art  in  clay  and  wood,  they  can 
consummately  know  no  others.  Nor  is  it  without  the  strange 
significance  which  you  will  find  in  what  at  first  seemed  chance, 
in  all  noble  histories,  as  soon  as  you  can  read  them  rightly,-— 
that  the  statue  of  Athena  Polias  was  of  olive-wood,  and  that 
the  Greek  temple  and  Gothic  spire  are  both  merely  the  per- 
manent representations  of  useful  wooden  structures.  On 
these  two  first  arts  follow  building  in  stone, — sculpture, — 
metal  work, — and  painting  ;  every  art  being  properly  called 
'  fine  '  which  demands  the  exercise  of  the  full  faculties  of  heart 
and  intellect.  For  though  the  fine  arts  are  not  necessarily  im- 
itative or  representative,  for  their  essence  is  being  '  -itepl  yive- 
6 iv  ' — occupied  in  the  actual  production  of  beautiful  form  or 
colour — still,  the  highest  of  them  are  appointed  also  to  relate 
to  us  the  utmost  ascertainable  truth  respecting  visible  things 
and  moral  feelings  :  and  this  pursuit  of  fact  is  the  vital  ele- 
ment of  the  art  power  ; — that  in  which  alone  it  can  develope 
itself  to  its  utmost.  And  I  will  anticipate  by  an  assertion 
which  you  will  at  present  think  too  bold,  but  which  I  am  will- 
ing that  you  should  think  so,  in  order  that  you  may  well  re- 
member it, — the  highest  thing  that  art  can  do  is  to  set  before 
you  the  true  image  of  the  presence  of  a  noble  human  being. 
It  has  never  done  more  than  this,  and  it  ought  not  to  do  less. 

32.  The  great  arts — forming  thus  one  perfect  scheme  of 
human  skill,  of  which  it  is  not  right  to  call  one  division  more 
honourable,  though  it  may  be  more  subtle,  than  another — 
have  had,  and  can  have,  but  three  principal  directions  of 
purpose  : — first,  that  of  enforcing  the  religion  of  men  ;  sec- 
ondly, that  of  perfecting  their  ethical  state  ;  thirdly,  that  of 
doing  them  material  service. 

33.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  you  are  surprised  at  my  say- 
ing the  arts  can  in  their  second  function  only  be  directed  to 


220 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


the  perfecting  of  there  ethical  state,  it  being  our  usual  impres 
sion  that  they  are  often  destructive  of  morality.  But  it  is  im- 
possible to  direct  fine  art  to  an  immoral  end,  except  by  giving  it 
characters  unconnected  with  its  fineness,  or  by  addressing  it 
to  persons  who  cannot  perceive  it  to  be  fine.  Whosoever  re- 
cognises it  is  exalted  by  it.  On  the  other  hand,  it  has  been 
commonly  thought  that  art  was  a  most  fitting  means  for  the 
enforcement  of  religious  doctrines  and  emotions  ;  whereas 
there  is,  as  I  must  presently  try  to  show  you,  room  for  grave 
doubt  whether  it  has  not  in  this  function  hitherto  done  evil 
rather  than  good. 

34.  In  this  and  the  two  next  following  lectures,  I  shall 
endeavour  therefore  to  show  you  the  grave  relations  of  human 
art,  in  these  three  functions,  to  human  life.  I  can  do  this 
but  roughly,  as  you  may  well  suppose — since  each  of  these 
subjects  would  require  for  its  right  treatment  years  instead 
of  hours.  Only,  remember,  I  have  already  given  years,  not  a 
few,  to  each  of  them  ;  and  what  I  try  to  tell  you  now  will  be 
only  so  much  as  is  absolutely  necessary  to  set  our  work  on  a 
clear  foundation.  You  may  not,  at  present,  see  the  necessity 
for  any  foundation,  and  may  think  that  I  ought  to  put  pencil 
and  paper  in  your  hands  at  once.  On  that  point  I  must 
simply  answer,  'Trust  me  a  little  while/  asking  you  however 
also  to  remember,  that — irrespectively  of  what  you  do  last 
or  first — my  true  function  here  is  not  that  of  your  master  in 
painting,  or  sculpture,  or  pottery  ;  but  my  real  duty  is  to 
show  you  what  it  is  that  makes  any  of  these  arts  fine,  or  the 
contrary  of  fine  ;  essentially  good,  or  essentially  base.  You 
need  not  fear  my  not  being  practical  enough  for  you  ;  all  the 
industry  you  choose  to  give  me  I  will  take  ;  but  far  the  better 
part  of  what  you  may  gain  by  such  industry  would  be  lost,  if 
I  did  not  first  lead  you  to  see  what  every  form  of  art-industry 
intends,  and  why  some  of  it  is  justly  called  right,  and  some 
wrong. 

35.  It  would  be  well  if  you  were  to  look  over,  with  re- 
spect to  this  matter,  the  end  of  the  second,  and  what  interests 
you  of  the  third  book  of  Plato's  Bepublic  ;  noting  therein 
these  two  principal  things,  of  which  I  have  to  speak  in  this 


TEE  RELATION  OF  AliT  TO  RELIGION.  221 


and  my  next  lecture  :  first,  the  power  which  Plato  so  frankly, 
and  quite  justly,  attributes  to  art,  of  falsifying  our  concep- 
tions of  Deity  :  which  power  he  by  fatal  error  partly  implies 
may  be  used  wisely  for  good,  and  that  the  feigning  is  only 
wrong  when  it  is  of  evil,  '  lav  rt?  fxrj  kolXws  xf/evSrfTai ; '  and  you 
may  trace  through  all  that  follows  the  beginning  of  tlie 
change  of  Greek  ideal  art  into  a  beautiful  expediency,  instead 
of  what  it  was  in  the  days  of  Pindar,  the  statement  of  what 
'  could  not  be  otherwise  than  so/  But,  in  the  second  place, 
you  will  find  in  those  books  of  the  Polity,  stated  with  far 
greater  accuracy  of  expression  than  our  English  language 
admits,  the  essential  relations  of  art  to  morality  ;  the  sum  of 
these  being  given  in  one  lovely  sentence,  which,  considering 
that  we  have  to-day  grace  done  us  by  fair  companionship, 
you  will  pardon  me  for  translating.  '  Must  it  be  then  only 
with  our  poets  that  we  insist  they  shall  either  create  for  us 
the  image  of  a  noble  morality,  or  among  us  create  none  ?  or 
shall  we  not  also  keep  guard  over  all  other  workers  for  the 
people,  and  forbid  them  to  make  what  is  ill-customed,  and  un- 
restrained, and  ungentle,  and  without  order  or  shape,  either  in 
likenesses  of  living  things,  or  in  buildings,  or  in  any  other  thing 
whatsoever  that  is  made  for  the  people  ?  and  shall  wre  not 
rather  seek  for  workers  who  can  track  the  inner  nature  of  all 
that  may  be  sweetly  schemed ;  so  that  the  young  men,  as 
living  in  a  wiiolesome  place,  may  be  profited  by  everything 
that,  in  work  fairly  wrought,  may  touch  them  through  hearing 
or  sight — as  if  it  were  a  breeze  bringing  health  to  them  from 
places  strong  for  life  ? ' 

36.  And  now — but  one  word,  before  we  enter  on  our  task, 
as  to  the  way  you  must  understand  what  I  may  endeavour  to 
tell  you. 

Let  me  beg  you — now  and  always — not  to  think  that  I  mean 
more  than  I  say.  In  all  probability,  I  mean  just  what  I  say, 
and  only  that.  At  all  events  I  do  fully  mean  that,  and  if  there 
is  anything  reserved  in  my  mind,  it  will  be  probably  different 
from  what  you  would  guess.  You  are  perfectly  welcome  to 
know  ail  that  I  think,  as  soon  as  I  have  put  before  you  all  my 
grounds  for  thinking  it ;  but  by  the  time  I  have  clone  so,  you 


222 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


will  be  able  to  form  an  opinion  of  your  own  ;  and  mine  will 

then  be  of  no  consequence  to  you. 

37.  I  use  then  to-day,  as  I  shall  in  future  use,  the  word 
'  religion '  as  signifying  the  feelings  of  love,  reverence,  or  dread 
with  which  the  human  mind  is  affected  by  its  conceptions  of 
spiritual  being  ;  and  you  know  well  how  necessary  it  is,  both 
to  the  lightness  of  our  own  life,  and  to  the  understanding  the 
lives  of  others,  that  we  should  always  keep  clearly  distinguished 
our  ideas  of  religion,  as  thus  defined,  and  of  morality,  as  the 
law  of  lightness  in  human  conduct.  For  there  are  many  re- 
ligions, but  there  is  only  one  morality.  There  are  moral  and 
immoral  religions,  which  differ  as  much  in  precept  as  in  emo- 
tion ;  but  there  is  only  one  morality,  which  has  been,  is,  and 
must  be  forever,  an  instinct  in  the  hearts  of  all  civilized  men, 
as  certain  and  unalterable  as  their  outward  bodily  form,  and 
which  receives  from  religion  neither  law,  nor  peace  ;  but  only 
hope,  and  felicity. 

38.  The  pure  forms  or  states  of  religion  hitherto  known, 
are  those  in  which  a  healthy  humanity,  finding  in  itself  many 
foibles  and  sins,  has  imagined,  or  been  made  conscious  of,  the 
existence  of  higher  spiritual  personality,  liable  to  no  such 
fault  or  stain  ;  and  has  been  assisted  in  effort,  and  consoled 
in  pain,  by  reference  to  the  will  or  sympathy  of  such  more 
pure  spirits,  whether  imagined  or  real.  I  am  compelled  to 
use  these  painful  latitudes  of  expression,  because  no  analysis 
has  hitherto  sufficed  to  distinguish  accurately,  in  historical  nar- 
rative, the  difference  between  impressions  resulting  from  the 
imagination  of  the  worshipper,  and  those  made,  if  any,  by  the 
actually  local  and  temporary  presence  of  another  spirit.  For 
instance,  take  the  vision,  which  of  all  others  has  been  since 
made  most  frequently  the  subject  of  physical  representation — 
the  appearance  to  Ezekiel  and  St.  John  of  the  four  living 
creatures,  which  throughout  Christendom  have  been  used  to 
symbolize  the  Evangelists.*  Supposing  such  interpretation 
just,  one  of  those  figures  was  either  the  mere  symbol  to  St, 
John  of  himself,  or  it  was  the  power  which  inspired  him  man- 


*  Only  the  Gospels,  i  IV.  Evan  gel  ia,'  according  to  St.  Jeromo. 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  223 


ifesting  itself  in  an  independent  form.  Which  of  these  it  was, 
or  whether  neither  of  these,  but  a  vision  of  other  powers,  or  a 
dream,  of  which  neither  the  prophet  himself  knew,  nor  can  any 
other  person  yet  know,  the  interpretation,  I  suppose  no  mod- 
estly-tempered and  accurate  thinker  would  now  take  upon 
himself  to  decide.  Nor  is  it  therefore  anywise  necessary  for 
you  to  decide  on  that,  or  any  other  such  question  ;  but  it  is 
necessary  that  you  should  be  bold  enough  to  look  every  oppos- 
ing question  steadily  in  its  face  ;  and  modest  enough,  having 
done  so,  to  know  when  it  is  too  hard  for  you.  But  above  all 
things,  see  that  you  be  modest  in  your  thoughts,  for  of  this 
one  thing  we  may  be  absolutely  sure,  that  all  our  thoughts 
are  but  degrees  of  darkness.  And  in  these  days  you  have  to 
guard  against  the  fatallest  darkness  of  the  two  opposite 
Prides  :  the  Pride  of  Faith,  which  imagines  that  the  Nature  of 
the  Deity  can  be  defined  by  its  convictions  ;  and  the  Pride  of 
Science,  which  imagines  that  the  Energy  of  Deity  can  be  ex- 
plained by  its  analysis. 

39.  Of  these,  the  first,  the  Pride  of  Faith,  is  now,  as  it  has 
been  always,  the  most  deadly,  because  the  most  complacent 
and  subtle  ; — because  it  invests  every  evil  passion  of  our 
nature  with  the  aspect  of  an  angel  of  light,  and  enables  the 
self-love,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  put  to  wholesome 
shame,  and  the  cruel  carelessness  of  the  ruin  of  our  fellow- 
men,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  warmed  into  human 
love,  or  at  least  checked  by  human  intelligence,  to  congeal 
themselves  into  the  mortal  intellectual  disease  of  imagining 
that  myriads  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  world  for  four  thousand 
years  have  been  left  to  wander  and  perish,  many  of  them  ever- 
lastingly, in  order  that,  in  fulness  of  time,  divine  truth  might 
be  preached  sufficiently  to  ourselves  ;  with  this  farther  ineffa- 
ble mischief  for  direct  result,  that  multitudes  of  kindly-dis- 
posed, gentle,  and  submissive  persons,  who  might  else  by 
their  true  patience  have  alloyed  the  hardness  of  the  common 
crowd,  and  by  their  activity  for  good,  balanced  its  misdoing, 
are  withdrawn  from  all  such  true  service  of  man,  that  they 
may  pass  the  best  part  of  their  lives  in  what  they  are  told 
is  the  service  of  God  ;  namely,  desiring  what  they  cannot 


224 


LECTURES  OR  ART 


| 


obtain,  lamenting  what  they  cannot  avoid,  and  reflecting  on 
what  they  cannot  understand. 

40.  This,  I  repeat,  is  the  deadliest,  but  for  you,  under  ex- 
isting circumstances,  it  is  becoming  daily,  almost  hourly,  the 
least  probable  form  of  Pride.  That  which  you  have  chiefly 
to  guard  against  consists  in  the  overvaluing  of  minute  though 
correct  discovery  ;  the  groundless  denial  of  all  that  seems  to 
you  to  have  been  groundlessly  affirmed  ;  and  the  interesting 
yourselves  too  curiously  in  the  progress  of  some  scientific 
minds,  which  in  their  judgment  of  the  universe  can  be  com- 
pared to  nothing  so  accurately  as  to  the  woodworms  in  the 
panel  of  a  picture  by  some  great  painter,  if  we  may  conceive 
them  as  tasting  with  discrimination  of  the  wood  and  with  re- 
pugnance of  the  colour,  and  declaring  that  even  this  unlooked- 
for  and  undesirable  combination  is  a  normal  result  of  the 
action  of  molecular  Forces. 

41.  Now,  I  must  very  earnestly  warn  you,  in  the  beginning 
of  my  work  with  you  here,  against  allowing  either  of  these 
forms  of  egotism  to  interfere  with  your  judgment  or  practice 
of  art.  On  the  one  hand,  you  must  not  allow  the  expression 
of  your  own  favourite  religious  feelings  by  any  particular 
form  of  art  to  modify  your  judgment  of  its  absolute  merit ; 
nor  allow  the  art  itself  to  become  an  illegitimate  means  of 
deepening  and  confirming  your  convictions,  by  realizing  to 
your  eyes  what  you  dimly  conceive  with  the  brain  ;  as  if  the 
greater  clearness  of  the  image  were  a  stronger  proof  of  its 
truth.  On  the  other  hand,  you  must  not  allow  your  scientific 
habit  of  trusting  nothing  but  what  you  have  ascertained,  to 
prevent  you  from  appreciating,  or  at  least  endeavouring  to 
qualify  yourselves  to  appreciate,  the  work  of  the  highest  fac- 
ulty of  the  human  mind, — its  imagination, — when  it  is  toiling 
in  the  presence  of  things  that  cannot  be  dealt  with  by  any 
other  power. 

42.  These  are  both  vital  conditions  of  your  healthy  progress. 
On  the  one  hand,  observe  that  you  do  not  wilfully  use  the 
realistic  power  of  art  to  convince  yourselves  of  historical  or 
theological  statements  which  you  cannot  otherwise  prove  , 
and  which  you  wish  to  prove  : — on  the  other  hand,  that  you 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  225 


do  not  check  your  imagination  and  conscience  while  seizing 
the  truths  of  which  they  alone  are  cognizant,  because  you 
value  too  highly  the  scientific  interest  which  attaches  to  the 
investigation  of  second  causes. 

For  instance,  it  may  be  quite  possible  to  show  the  con- 
ditions in  water  and  electricity  which  necessarily  produce  the 
craggy  outline,  the  apparently  self-contained  silvery  light,  and 
the  sulphurous  blue  shadow  of  a  thunder-cloud,  and  which 
separate  these  from  the  depth  of  the  golden  peace  in  the  dawn 
of  a  summer  morning.  Similarly,  it  may  be  possible  to  show 
the  necessities  of  structure  which  groove  the  fangs  and  de- 
press the  brow  of  the  asp,  and  which  distinguish  the  character 
of  its  head  from  that  of  the  face  of  a  young  girl.  But  it  is 
the  function  of  the  rightly-trained  imagination  to  recognise, 
in  these,  and  such  other  relative  aspects,  the  unity  of  teaching 
which  impresses,  alike  on  our  senses  and  our  conscience,  the 
eternal  difference  between  good  and  evil :  and  the  rule,  over 
the  clouds  of  heaven  and  over  the  creatures  in  the  earth,  of 
the  same  Spirit  which  teaches  to  our  own  hearts  the  bitterness 
of  death,  and  strength  of  love. 

43.  Now,  therefore,  approaching  our  subject  in  this  balanced 
temper,  which  will  neither  resolve  to  see  only  what  it  would 
desire,  nor  expect  to  see  only  what  it  can  explain,  we  shall  find 
our  enquiry  into  the  relation  of  Art  to  Religion  is  distinctly 
threefold  :  first,  we  have  to  ask  how  far  art  may  have  been 
literally  directed  by  spiritual  powers  ;  secondly,  how  far,  if 
not  inspired,  it  may  have  been  exalted  by  them  ;  lastly,  how 
far,  in  any  of  its  agencies,  it  has  advanced  the  cause  of  the 
creeds  it  has  been  used  to  recommend. 

44.  First :  "What  ground  have  we  for  thinking  that  art  has 
ever  been  inspired  as  a  message  or  revelation?  What  in- 
ternal evidence  is  there  in  the  work  of  great  artists  of  their 
having  been  under  the  authoritative  guidance  of  supernatural 
powers  ? 

It  is  true  that  the  answer  to  so  mysterious  a  question  can- 
not rest  alone  upon  internal  evidence  ;  but  it  is  well  that  you 
should  know  what  might,  from  that  evidence  alone,  be  con- 
cluded.    And  the  more  impartially  }tou  examine  the  phe* 


226 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


nomena  of  imagination,  the  more  firmly  you  will  be  led  to 
conclude  that  they  are  the  result  of  the  influence  of  the  com- 
mon and  vital,  but  not,  therefore,  less  Divine,  spirit,  of  which 
some  portion  is  given  to  all  living  creatures  in  such  manner 
as  may  be  adapted  to  their  rank  in  creation  ;  and  that  every- 
thing which  men  rightly  accomplish  is  indeed  done  by  Divine 
help,  but  under  a  consistent  law  which  is  never  departed  from. 

The  strength  of  this  spiritual  life  within  us  may  be  in- 
creased or  lessened  by  our  own  conduct ;  it  varies  from  time 
to  time,  as  physical  strength  varies ;  it  is  summoned  on  dif- 
ferent occasions  by  our  will,  and  dejected  by  our  distress,  or 
our  sin  ;  but  it  is  always  equally  human,  and  equally  Divine. 
We  are  men,  and  not  mere  animals,  because  a  special  form  of 
it  is  with  us  always ;  we  are  nobler  and  baser  men,  as  it  is 
with  us  more  or  less  ;  but  it  is  never  given  to  us  in  any  degree 
which  can  make  us  more  than  men. 

45.  Observe  : — I  give  you  this  general  statement  doubt- 
fully, and  only  as  that  towards  which  an  impartial  reasoner 
will,  I  think,  be  inclined  by  existing  data.  But  I  shall  be 
able  to  show  you,  without  any  doubt,  in  the  course  of  our 
studies,  that  the  achievements  of  art  which  have  been  usually 
looked  upon  as  the  results  of  peculiar  inspiration,  have  been 
arrived  at  only  through  long  courses  of  wisely-directed  labour, 
and  under  the  influence  of  feelings  which  are  common  to  all 
humanity. 

But  of  these  feelings  and  powers  which  in  different  degrees 
are  common  to  humanity,  you  are  to  note  that  there  are  three 
principal  divisions  :  first,  the  instincts  of  construction  or 
melody,  which  we  share  with  lower  animals,  and  which  are  in 
us  as  native  as  the  instinct  of  the  bee  or  nightingale  ;  secondly, 
the  faculty  of  vision,  or  of  dreaming,  whether  in  sleep  or  in 
conscious  trance,  or  by  voluntarily  exerted  fancy  ;  and  lastly, 
the  power  of  rational  inference  and  collection,  of  both  the 
laws  and  forms  of  beauty. 

46.  Now  the  faculty  of  vision,  being  closely  associated  with 
the  innermost  spiritual  nature,  is  the  one  which  has  by  most 
reasoners  been  held  for  the  peculiar  channel  of  Divine  teach- 
ing :  and  it  is  a  fact  that  great  part  of  purely  didactic  art  has 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  227 


been  the  record,  whether  in  language,  or  by  linear  representa- 
tion, of  actual  vision  involuntarily  received  at  the  moment, 
though  cast  on  a  mental  retina  blanched  by  the  past  course 
of  faithful  life.  But  it  is  also  true  that  these  visions,  where 
most  distinctly  received,  are  always — I  speak  deliberately — 
always,  the  sign  of  some  mental  limitation  or  derangement  ; 
and  that  the  persons  who  most  clearly  recognise  their  value, 
exaggeratedly  estimate  it,  choosing  what  they  find  to  be  use- 
ful, and  calling  that  'inspired/  and  disregarding  what  they 
perceive  to  be  useless,  though  presented  to  the  visionary  by 
an  equal  authority. 

47.  Thus  it  is  probable  that  no  work  of  art  has  been  more 
widely  didactic  than  Albert  Diirer's  engraving,  known  as  the 
'Knight  and  Death/*  But  that  is  only  one  of  a  series  of 
wrorks  representing  similarly  vivid  dreams,  of  which  some  are 
uninteresting,  except  for  the  manner  of  their  representation, 
as  the  c  St.  Hubert/  and  others  are  unintelligible ;  some, 
frightful,  and  wholly  unprofitable  ;  so  that  we  find  the  visionary 
faculty  in  that  great  painter,  when  accurately  examined,  to  be 
a  morbid  influence,  abasing  his  skill  more  frequently  than  en- 
couraging it,  and  sacrificing  the  greater  part  of  his  energies 
upon  vain  subjects,  two  only  being  produced,  in  the  course  of 
a  long  life,  which  are  of  high  didactic  value,  and  both  of  these 
capable  only  of  giving  sad  courage.  j~  Whatever  the  value  of 
these  two,  it  bears  more  the  aspect  of  a  treasure  obtained  at 
great  cost  of  suffering,  than  of  a  directly  granted  gift  from 
heaven. 

48.  On  the  contrary,  not  only  the  highest,  but  the  most 
consistent  results  have  been  attained  in  art  by  men  in  whom 
the  faculty  of  vision,  however  strong,  was  subordinate  to  that 
of  deliberative  design,  and  tranquillised  by  a  measure,  con- 
tinual, not  feverish,  but  affectionate,  observance  of  the  quite 
un visionary  facts  of  the  surrounding  world. 

And  so  far  as  we  can  trace  the  connection  of  their  powers 

*  Standard  Series,  No.  9. 

f  The  meaning  of  the  *  Knight  and  Death,'  even  in  this  respect,  has 
lately  been  questioned  on  good  grounds.  See  note  on  the  plate  in 
Catalogue. 


228 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


with  the  moral  character  of  their  lives,  we  shall  find  that  the 
best  art  is  the  work  of  good,  but  of  not  distinctly  religious 
men,  who,  at  least,  are  conscious  of  no  inspiration,  and  often 
so  unconscious  of  their  superiority  to  others,  that  one  of  the 
very  greatest  of  them,  deceived  by  his  modesty,  has  asserted 
that  '  all  things  are  possible  to  well-directed  labour. ' 

49.  The  second  question,  namely,  how  far  art,  if  not  in- 
spired, has  yet  been  ennobled  by  religion,  I  shall  not  touch 
upon  to-day  ;  for  it  both  requires  technical  criticism,  and 
wTould  divert  you  too  long  from  the  main  question  of  all,— 
How  far  religion  has  been  helped  by  art  ? 

You  will  find  that  the  operation  of  formative  art — (I  will 
not  speak  to-da}^  of  music) — the  operation  of  formative  art  on 
religious  creed  is  essentially  twofold  ;  the  realisation,  to  the 
eyes,  of  imagined  spiritual  persons  ;  and  the  limitation  of 
their  imagined  presence  to  certain  places.  We  will  examines 
these  two  functions  of  it  successively. 

50.  And  first,  consider  accurately  what  the  agency  of  art 
is,  in  realising,  to  the  sight,  Our  conceptions  of  spiritual  per- 
sons. 

For  instance.  Assume  that  we  believe  that  the  Madonna 
is  always  present  to  hear  and  answer  our  prayers.  Assume 
also  that  this  is  true.  I  think  that  persons  in  a  perfectly  hon- 
est, faithful,  and  humble  temper,  would  in  that  case  desire 
only  to  feel  so  much  of  the  Divine  presence  as  the  spiritual 
Power  herself  chose  to  make  felt ;  and,  above  all  things,  not 
to  think  they  saw,  or  knew,  anything  except  what  might  be 
truly  perceived  or  known. 

But  a  mind  imperfectly  faithful,  and  impatient  in  its  dis- 
tress, or  craving  in  its  dulness  for  a  more  distinct  and  con- 
vincing sense  of  the  Divinity,  would  endeavour  to  complete, 
or  perhaps  we  should  rather  say  to  contract,  its  conception, 
into  the  definite  figure  of  a  woman  wearing  a  blue  or  crimson 
dress,  and  having  fair  features,  dark  eyes,  and  gracefully  ar- 
ranged hair. 

Suppose,  after  forming  such  a  conception,  that  we  have  the 
power  to  realise  and  preserve  it,  this  image  of  a  beautiful  fig- 
ure with  a  pleasant  expression  cannot  but  have  the  tendency 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  229 


of  afterwards  leading  us  to  think  of  the  Virgin  as  present, 
when  she  is  not  actually  present,  or  as  pleased  with  us,  when 
she  is  not  actually  pleased  ;  or  if  we  resolutely  prevent  our- 
selves from  such  imagination,  nevertheless  the  existence  of 
the  image  beside  us  will  often  turn  our  thoughts  towards 
subjects  of  religion,  when  otherwise  they  would  have  been 
differently  occupied  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  other  occupations, 
will  familiarise  more  or  less,  and  even  mechanically  associate 
with  common  or  faultful  states  of  mind,  the  appearance  of  the 
supposed  Divine  person. 

51.  There  are  thus  two  distinct  operations  upon  our  mind : 
first,  the  art  makes  us  believe  what  we  would  not  otherwise 
have  believed  ;  and  secondly,  it  makes  us  think  of  subjects  we 
should  not  otherwise  have  thought  of,  intruding  them  amidst 
our  ordinary  thoughts  in  a  confused  and  familiar  manner. 
We  cannot  with  any  certainty  affirm  the  advantage  or  the 
harm  of  such  accidental  pieties,  for  their  effect  will  be  very 
different  on  different  characters:  bat,  without  any  question, 
the  art,  which  makes  us  believe  what  we  would  not  have 
otherwise  believed,  is  misapplied,  and  in  most  instances  very 
dangerously  so.  Our  duty  is  to  believe  in  the  existence  of 
Divine,  or  any  other,  persons,  only  upon  rational  proofs  of 
their  existence  ;  and  not  because  we  have  seen  pictures  of 
them.  And  since  the  real  relations  between  us  and  higher 
spirits  are,  of  all  facts  concerning  our  being,  those  which  it  is 
most  important  to  know  accurately,  if  we  know  at  all,  it  is  a 
folly  so  great  as  to  amount  to  real,  though  most  unintentional, 
sin,  to  allow  our  conceptions  of  those  relations  to  be  modified 
by  our  own  undisciplined  fancy. 

52.  But  now  observe,  it  is  here  necessary  to  draw  a  distinc- 
tion, so  subtle,  that  in  dealing  with  facts  it  is  continually  im« 
possible  to  mark  it  with  precision,  yet  so  vital,  that  not  only 
your  understanding  of  the  power  of  art,  but  the  working  of 
your  minds  in  matters  of  primal  moment  to  you,  depends  on 
the  effort  you  make  to  affirm  this  distinction  strongly.  The 
art  which  realises  a  creature  of  the  imagination  is  only  mis- 
chievous when  that  realisation  is  conceived  to  impty,  or  does 
practically  induce  a  belief  in,  the  real  existence  of  the  im- 


230 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


agined  personage,  contrary  to,  or  unjustified  by  the  other  evi- 
dence of  its  existence.  But  if  the  art  only  represents  the 
personage  on  the  understanding  that  its  form  is  imaginary, 
then  the  effort  at  realisation  is  healthful  and  beneficial. 

For  instance.  I  shall  place  in  your  Standard  series  a 
Greek  design  of  Apollo  crossing  the  sea  to  Delphi,  which  is 
an  example  of  one  of  the  highest  types  of  Greek  or  any  other 
art.  So  far  as  that  design  is  only  an  expression,  under  the 
symbol  of  a  human  form,  of  what  may  be  rightly  imagined 
respecting  the  solar  power,  the  art  is  right  and  ennobling; 
but  so  far  as  it  conveyed  to  the  Greek  the  idea  of  there  being 
a  real  Apollo,  it  was  mischievous,  whether  there  be,  or  be  not, 
a  real  Apollo.  If  there  is  no  real  Apollo,  then  the  art  was 
mischievous  because  it  deceived  ;  but  if  there  is  a  real  Apollo, 
then  it  was  still  more  mischievous,  for  it  not  only  began  the 
degradation  of  the  image  of  that  true  god  into  a  decoration 
for  niches,  and  a  device  for  seals ;  but  prevented  any  true 
witness  being  borne  to  his  existence.  For  if  the  Greeks,  in- 
stead of  multiplying  representations  of  what  they  imagined  to 
be  the  figure  of  the  god,  had  given  us  accurate  drawings  of 
the  heroes  and  battles  of  Marathon  and  Salamis,  and  had 
simply  told  us  in  plain  Greek  what  evidence  they  had  of  the 
power  of  Apollo,  either  through  his  oracles,  his  help  or  chas- 
tisement, or  by  immediate  vision,  they  would  have  served 
their  religion  more  truly  than  by  all  the  vase-paintings  and 
fine  statues  that  ever  were  buried  or  adored. 

53.  Now  in  this  particular  instance,  and  in  many  other  ex- 
amples of  fine  Greek  art,  the  two  conditions  of  thought,  sym- 
bolic and  realistic,  are  mingled  ;  and  the  art  is  helpful,  as  I 
will  hereafter  show  you,  in  one  function,  and  in  the  other  so 
deadly,  that  I  think  no  degradation  of  conception  of  Deity  has 
ever  been  quite  so  base  as  that  implied  by  the  designs  of 
Greek  vases  in  the  period  of  decline,  say  about  250  B.C. 

But  though  among  the  Greeks  it  is  thus  nearly  always  diffi- 
cult to  say  what  is  symbolic  and  what  realistic,  in  the  range 
of  Christian  art  the  distinction  is  clear.  In  that,  a  vast  divi- 
sion of  imaginative  work  is  occupied  in  the  symbolism  of  vir- 
tues, vices,  or  natural  powers  or  passions  ;  and  in  the  repre* 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION. 


231 


senfcation  of  personages  who,  though  nominally  real,  become 
in  conception  symbolic.  In  the  greater  part  of  this  work 
there  is  no  intention  of  implying  the  existence  of  the  repre- 
sented creature  ;  Diirer's  Melencolia  and  Giotto's  Justice  are 
accurately  characteristic  examples.  Now  all  such  art  is  wholly 
good  and  useful  when  it  is  the  work  of  good  men. 

54.  Again,  there  is  another  division  of  Christian  work  in 
which  the  persons  represented,  though  nominally  real,  are 
treated  only  as  drama tis-personse  of  a  poem,  and  so  presented 
confessedly  as  subjects  of  imagination.  All  this  poetic  art  is 
also  good  when  it  is  the  work  of  good  men. 

55.  There  remains  only  therefore  to  be  considered,  as  truly 
religious,  the  work  which  definitely  implies  and  modifies  the 
conception  of  the  existence  of  a  real  person.  There  is  hardly 
any  great  art  which  entirely  belongs  to  this  class  ;  but  Rapha- 
el's Madonna  della  Seggiola  is  as  accurate  a  type  of  it  as  I 
can  give  you  ;  Holbein's  Madonna  at  Dresden,  the  Madonna 
di  San  Sisto,  and  the  Madonna  of  Titian's  Assumption,  all  be- 
long mainly  to  this  class,  but  are  removed  somewhat  from  it 
(as  I  repeat,  nearly  all  great  art  is)  into  the  poetical  one.  It 
is  only  the  bloody  crucifixes  and  gilded  virgins  and  other  such 
lower  forms  of  imagery  (by  which,  to  the  honour  of  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  it  has  been  truly  claimed  for  her,  that  '  she  has 
never  appealed  to  the  madness  or  dulness  of  her  people/) 
which  belongs  to  the  realistic  class  in  strict  limitation,  and 
which  properly  constitute  the  type  of  it. 

There  is  indeed  an  important  school  of  sculpture  in  Spain, 
directed  to  the  same  objects,  but  not  demanding  at  present 
any  special  attention.  And  finally,  there  is  the  vigorous  and 
most  interesting  realistic  school  of  our  own,  in  modern  times, 
mainly  known  to  the  public  by  Holman  Hunt's  picture  of  the 
Light  of  the  World,  though,  I  believe,  deriving  its  first  origin 
from  the  genius  of  the  painter  to  whom  you  owe  also  the  re- 
vival of  interest,  first  here  in  Oxford,  and  then  universally,  in 
the  cycle  of  early  English  legend, — Dante  Rossetti. 

56.  The  effect  of  this  realistic  art  on  the  religious  mind  of 
Europe  varies  in  scope  more  than  any  other  art  power  ;  for 
in  its  higher  branches  it  touches  the  mosfc  sincere  religious 


232 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


minds,  affecting  an  earnest  class  of  persons  who  cannot  be 
reached  by  merely  poetical  design  ;  while,  in  its  lowest,  ifc 
addresses  itself  not  only  to  the  most  vulvar  desires  for  relio-, 
ious  excitement,  but  to  the  mere  thirst  for  sensation  of  horror 
which  characterises  the  uneducated  orders  of  partially  civil- 
ised countries  ;  nor  merely  to  the  thirst  for  horror,  but  to 
the  strange  love  of  death,  as  such,  which  has  sometimes  in 
Catholic  countries  showed  itself  peculiarly  by  the  endeavour 
to  paint  the  images  in  the  chapels  of  the  Sepulchre  so  as  to 
look  deceptively  like  corpses.  The  same  morbid  instinct  has 
also  affected  the  minds  of  many  among  the  more  imaginative 
and  powerful  artists  with  a  feverish  gloom  which  distorts 
their  finest  work  ;  and  lastly — and  this  is  the  worst  of  all  its 
effects — it  has  occupied  the  sensibility  of  Christian  women, 
universally,  in  lamenting  the  sufferings  of  Christ,  instead  of 
preventing  those  of  His  people. 

57.  When  any  of  you  next  go  abroad,  observe,  and  consider 
the  meaning  of,  the  sculptures  and  paintings,  which  of  every 
rank  in  art,  and  in  every  chapel  and  cathedral,  and  by  every 
mountain  path,  recall  the  hours,  and  represent  the  agonies, 
of  the  Passion  of  Christ :  and  try  to  form  some  estimate  of  the 
efforts  that  have  been  made  by  the  four  arts  of  eloquence, 
music,  painting,  and  sculpture,  since  the  twelfth  century,  to 
wring  out  of  the  hearts  of  women  the  last  drops  of  pity  that 
could  be  excited  for  this  merely  physical  agony  :  for  the  art 
nearly  always  dwells  on  the  physical  wounds  or  exhaustion 
chiefly,  and  degrades,  far  more  than  it  animates,  the  concep- 
tion of  pain. 

Then  try  to  conceive  the  quantity  of  time,  and  of  excited 
and  thrilling  emotion,  which  have  been  wasted  by  the  tender 
and  delicate  women  of  Christendom  during  these  last  six 
hundred  years,  in  thus  picturing  to  themselves,  under  the 
influence  of  such  imagery,  the  bodily  pain,  long  since  passed, 
of  One  Person  ; — which,  so  far  as  they  indeed  conceived  it  to 
be  sustained  by  a  Divine  Nature,  could  not  for  that  reason 
have  been  less  endurable  than  the  agonies  of  any  simple  hu- 
man death  by  torture  :  and  then  try  to  estimate  what  might 
have  been  the  better  result,  for  the  righteousness  and  felicity 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION. 


233 


of  mankind,  if  these  same  women  had  been  taught  the  deep 
meaning  of  the  last  words  that  were  ever  spoken  by  their 
Master  to  those  who  had  ministered  to  Him  of  their  sub- 
stance :  'Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me,  but 
weep  for  yourselves,  and  for  your  children.'  If  they  had  but 
been  taught  to  measure  with  their  pitiful  thoughts  the  tort- 
ures of  battle-fields  ; — the  slowly  consuming  plagues  of  death 
in  the  starving  children,  and  wasted  age,  of  the  innumerable 
desolate  those  battles  left ; — nay  in  our  own  life  of  peace,  the 
agony  of  unnurtured,  untaught,  uu helped  creatures,  awaking 
at  the  grave's  edge  to  know  how  they  should  have  lived  ;  and 
the  worse  pain  of  those  whose  existence,  not  the  ceasing  of  it, 
is  death  ;  those  to  whom  the  cradle  was  a  curse,  and  for 
whom  the  words  they  cannot  hear,  'ashes  to  ashes,' are  all 
that  they  have  ever  received  of  benediction.  These, — you 
who  would  fain  have  wept  at  His  feet,  or  stood  by  His  cross, 
— these  you  have  always  with  you,  Him  you  have  not  always. 

58.  The  wretched  in  death  you  have  always  with  you. 
Yes,  and  the  brave  and  good  in  life  you  have  always  ; — these 
also  needing  help,  though  you  supposed  they  had  only  to  help 
others  ;  these  also  claiming  to  be  thought  for,  and  remembered. 
And  you  will  find,  if  you  look  into  history  with  this  clue,  that 
one  of  quite  the  chief  reasons  for  the  continual  misery  of  man- 
kind is  that  they  are  always  divided  in  their  worship  between 
angels  or  saints,  who  are  out  of  their  sight,  and  need  no  help, 
and  proud  and  evil-minded  men,  who  are  too  definitely  in 
their  sight,  and  ought  not  to  have  their  help.  And  consider 
how  the  arts  have  thus  followed  the  worship  of  the  crowd. 
You  have  paintings  of  saints  and  angels,  innumerable  ; — of 
petty  courtiers,  and  contemptible  or  cruel  kings,  innumerable. 
Few,  how  few  you  have  (but  these,  observe,  almost  always  by 
great  painters)  of  the  best  men,  or  of  their  actions.  But 
think  for  yourselves, — I  have  no  time  now  to  enter  upon  the 
mighty  field,  nor  imagination  enough  to  guide  me  beyond  the 
threshold  of  it, — think,  what  history  might  have  been  to  us 
now  ; — nay,  what  a  different  history  that  of  all  Europe  might 
have  become,  if  it  had  but  been  the  object  both  of  the  people 
to  discern,  and  of  their  arts  to  honour  and  bear  record  of,  the 


234 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


great  deeds  of  their  worthiest  men.  And  if,  instead  of  living, 
as  they  have  always  hitherto  done,  in  a  hellish  cloud  of  con- 
tention and  revenge,  lighted  by  fantastic  dreams  of  cloudy 
sanctities,  they  had  sought  to  reward  and  punish  justly, 
wherever  reward  and  punishment  were  due,  but  chiefly  to  re- 
ward j  and  at  least  rather  to  bear  testimony  to  the  human  acts 
which  deserved  God's  anger  or  His  blessing,  than  only  in  pre- 
sumptuous imagination  to  display  the  secrets  of  Judgment, 
or  the  beatitudes  of  Eternity. 

59.  Such  I  conceive  generally,  though  indeed  with  good 
arising  out  of  it,  for  every  great  evil  brings  some  good  in  its 
backward  eddies — such  I  conceive  to  have  been  the  deadly 
function  of  art  in  its  ministry  to  what,  whether  in  heathen  or 
Christian  lands,  and  whether  in  the  pageantry  of  words,  or 
colours,  or  fair  forms,  is  truly,  and  in  the  deep  sense,  to  be 
called  idolatry — the  serving  with  the  best  of  our  hearts  and 
minds,  some  dear  or  sad  fantasy  which  we  have  made  for  our- 
selves, while  we  disobey  the  present  call  of  the  Master,  who  is 
not  dead,  and  who  is  not  now  fainting  under  His  cross,  but 
requiring  us  to  take  up  ours. 

60.  I  pass  to  the  second  great  function  of  religious  art,  the 
limitation  of  the  idea  of  Divine  presence  to  particular  local- 
ities. It  is  of  course  impossible  within  my  present  limits  to 
touch  upon  this  power  of  art,  as  employed  on  the  temples  of 
the  gods  of  various  religions  ;  we  will  examine  that  on  future 
occasions.  To-day,  I  want  only  to  map  out  main  ideas,  and  I 
can  do  this  best  by  speaking  exclusively  of  this  localising  in- 
fluence as  it  affects  our  own  faith. 

Observe  first,  that  the  localisation  is  almost  entirely  depend- 
ent upon  human  art.  You  must  at  least  take  a  stone  and 
set  it  up  for  a  pillar,  if  you  are  to  mark  the  place,  so  as  to 
know  it  again,  where  a  vision  appeared.  A  persecuted  people, 
needing  to  conceal  their  places  of  worship,  may  perform  every 
religious  ceremony  first  under  one  crag  of  the  hill-side,  and 
then  under  another,  without  invalidating  the  sacredness  of 
the  rites  or  sacraments  thus  administered.  It  is,  therefore, 
we  all  acknowledge,  inessential,  that  a  particular  spot  should 
be  surrounded  with  a  ring  of  stones,  or  enclosed  within  walls 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  235 


of  a  certain  style  of  architecture,  and  so  set  apart  as  the  only 
place  where  such  ceremonies  may  be  properly  performed  ; 
and  it  is  thus  less  by  any  direct  appeal  to  experience  or  to  rea- 
son, but  in  consequence  of  the  effect  upon  our  senses  pro- 
duced by  the  architecture,  that  we  receive  the  first  strong  im- 
pressions of  what  we  afterwards  contend  for  as  absolute  truth, 
I  particularly  wish  you  to  notice  how  it  is  always  by  help  of 
human  art  that  such  a  result  is  attained,  because,  remember 
always,  I  am  neither  disputing  nor  asserting  the  truth  of  any 
theological  doctrine  ; — that  is  not  my  province  ; — I  am  only 
questioning  the  expediency  of  enforcing  that  doctrine  by  the 
help  of  architecture.  Put  a  rough  stone  for  an  altar  under 
the  hawthorn  on  a  village  green  ; — separate  a  portion  of  the 
green  itself  with  an  ordinary  paling  from  the  rest ; — then  con- 
secrate, with  whatever  form  you  choose,  the  space  of  grass 
you  have  enclosed,  and  meet  within  the  wooden  fences  often 
as  you  desire  to  pray  or  preach  ;  yet  you  will  not  easily  fasten 
an  impression  in  the  minds  of  the  villagers,  that  God  inhabits 
the  space  of  grass  inside  the  fence,  and  does  not  extend  His 
presence  to  the  common  beyond  it :  and  that  the  daisies  and 
violets  on  one  side  of  the  railing  are  holy, — on  the  other,  pro- 
fane. But,  instead  of  a  wooden  fence,  build  a  wall  ;  pave  the 
interior  space  ;  roof  it  over,  so  as  to  make  it  comparatively 
dark  ; — and  you  may  persuade  the  villagers  with  ease  that  you 
have  built  a  house  which  Deity  inhabits,  or  that  you  have  be- 
come, in  the  old  French  phrase,  a  '  logeur  du  Bon  Dieu.' 

61.  And  farther,  though  I  have  no  desire  to  introduce  any 
question  as  to  the  truth  of  what  we  thus  architecturally 
teach,  I  would  desire  you  most  strictly  to  determine  what  is 
intended  to  be  taught. 

Do  not  think  I  underrate — I  am  among  the  last  men  living 
who  would  underrate — the  importance  of  the  sentiments  con- 
nected with  their  church  to  the  population  of  a  pastoral  vil- 
lage. I  admit,  in  its  fullest  extent,  the  moral  value  of  the 
scene,  which  is  almost  always  one  of  perfect  purity  and  peace  ; 
and  of  the  sense  of  supernatural  love  and  protection,  which 
fills  and  surrounds  the  low  aisles  and  homely  porch.  But  the 
question  I  desire  earnestly  to  leave  with  you  is,  whether  all  the 


236 


LECTURES  OJSf  ART. 


earth  ought  not  to  be  peaceful  and  pure,  and  the  acknowl* 
edgment  of  the  Divine  protection  as  universal,  as  its  reality  ? 
That  in  a  mysterious  way  the  presence  of  Deity  is  vouchsafed 
where  it  is  sought,  and  withdrawn  where  it  is  forgotten,  must 
of  course  be  granted  as  the  first  postulate  in  the  enquiry :  but 
the  point  for  our  decision  is  just  this,  whether  it  ought  always 
to  be  sought  in  one  place  only,  and  forgotten  in  every  other. 

It  may  be  replied,  that  since  it  is  impossible  to  consecrate 
the  entire  space  of  the  earth,  it  is  better  thus  to  secure  a  por- 
tion of  it  than  none  :  but  surely,  if  so,  we  ought  to  make  some 
effort  to  enlarge  the  favoured  ground,  and  even  look  forward  to 
a  time  when  in  English  villages  there  may  be  a  God's  acre 
tenanted  by  the  living,  not  the  dead  ;  and  when  we  shall 
rather  look  with  aversion  and  fear  to  the  remnant  of  ground 
that  is  set  apart  as  profane,  than  with  reverence  to  a  narrow 
portion  of  it  enclosed  as  holy. 

62.  But  now,  farther.  Suppose  it  be  admitted  that  by  en- 
closing ground  with  walls,  and  performing  certain  ceremonies 
there  habitually,  gome  kind  of  sanctity  is  indeed  secured 
within  that  space, — still  the  question  remains  open  whether  it 
be  advisable  for  religious  purposes  to  decorate  the  enclosure. 
For  separation  the  mere  walls  would  be  enough.  What  is  the 
purpose  of  your  decoration  ? 

Let  us  take  an  instance — the  most  noble  with  which  I  am 
acquainted,  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres.  You  have  there  the 
most  splendid  coloured  glass,  and  the  richest  sculpture,  and 
the  grandest  proportions  of  building,  united  to  produce  a 
sensation  of  pleasure  and  awe.  We  profess  that  this  is  to 
honour  the  Deity  ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  it  is  pleasing  to 
Him  that  we  should  delight  our  eyes  with  blue  and  golden 
colours,  and  solemnise  our  spirits  by  the  sight  of  large  stones 
laid  one  on  another,  and  ingeniously  carved. 

63.  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  doubted  that  it  is  pleasing  to 
Him  when  we  do  this ;  for  He  has  Himself  prepared  for  us, 
nearly  every  morning  and  evening,  windows  painted  with  Di- 
vine art,  in  blue  and  gold  and  vermilion;  windows  lighted 
from  within  by  the  lustre  of  that  heaven  which  we  may  as- 
sume, at  least  with  more  certainty  than  any  consecrated 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  RELIGION.  237 


ground,  to  be  one  of  His  dwelling-places.  Again,  in  every 
mountain  side,  and  cliff  of  rude  sea  shore,  He  has  heaped 
stones  one  upon  another  of  greater  magnitude  than  those  of 
Chartres  Cathedral,  and  sculptured  them  with  floral  orna- 
ment,— surely  not  less  sacred  because  living  ? 

64.  Must  it  not  then  be  only  because  we  love  our  own  work 
better  than  His,  that  we  respect  the  lucent  glass,  but  not  the  lu- 
cent clouds ;  that  we  weave  embroidered  robes  with  ingenious 
fingers,  and  make  bright  the  gilded  vaults  we  have  beautifully 
ordained — while  yet  we  have  not  considered  the  heavens  the 
work  of  His  fingers  ;  nor  the  stars  of  the  strange  vault  wThich 
He  has  ordained.  And  do  we  dream  that  by  carving  fonts  and 
lifting  pillars  in  His  honour,  who  cuts  the  way  of  the  rivers 
among  the  rocks,  and  at  whose  reproof  the  pillars  of  the  earth 
are  astonished,  we  shall  obtain  pardon  for  the  dishonour  done 
to  the  hills  and  streams  by  which  He  has  appointed  our  dwell- 
ing-place ; — for  the  infection  of  their  sweet  air  with  poison  ; 
— for  the  burning  up  of  their  tender  grass  and  flowers  with 
fire,  and  for  spreading  such  a  shame  of  mixed  luxury  and  mis- 
ery over  our  native  land,  as  if  we  laboured  only  that,  at  least 
here  in  England,  we  might  be  able  to  give  the  lie  to  the  song, 
whether  of  the  Cherubim  above,  or  Church  beneath — 6  Holy, 
holy,  Lord  God  of  all  creatures  ;  Heaven — and  Earth — are  full 
of  Thy  glory?' 

65.  And  how  much  more  there  is  that  I  long  to  say  to  you  ; 
and  how  much,  I  hope,  that  you  would  like  to  answer  to  me, 
or  to  question  me  of  !  But  I  can  say  no  more  to-day.  We  are 
not,  I  trust,  at  the  end  of  our  talks  or  thoughts  together  ;  but, 
if  it  were  so,  and  I  never  spoke  to  you  more,  this  that  I  have 
said  to  you  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  been  permitted 
to  say  ;  and  this,  farther,  which  is  the  sum  of  it, — That  we 
may  have  splendour  of  art  again,  and  with  that,  we  may  truly 
praise  and  honour  our  Maker,  and  with  that  set  forth  the 
beauty  and  holiness  of  all  that  He  has  made  :  but  only  after 
we  have  striven  with  our  whole  hearts  first  to  sanctify  the  temple 
of  the  body  and  spirit  of  every  child  that  has  no  roof  to  cover 
its  head  from  the  cold,  and  no  walls  to  guard  its  soul  from 
corruption,  in  this  our  English  land. 


238 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


One  word  more. 

What  I  have  suggested  hitherto,  respecting  the  relations  of 
Art  to  Religion,  you  must  receive  throughout  as  merely  motive 
of  thought ;  though  you  must  have  well  seen  that  my  own 
convictions  were  established  finally  on  some  of  the  points  in 
question.  But  I  must,  in  conclusion,  tell  you  something  that 
I  know  ; — which,  if  you  truly  labour,  you  will  one  day  know 
also  ;  and  which  I  trust  some  of  you  will  believe,  now. 

During  the  minutes  in  which  you  have  been  listening  to  me, 
I  suppose  that  almost  at  every  other  sentence  those  whose 
habit  of  mind  has  been  one  of  veneration  for  established  forms 
and  faiths,  must  have  been  in  dread  that  I  was  about  to  say, 
or  in  pang  of  regret  at  my  having  said,  what  seemed  to  them 
an  irreverent  or  reckless  word  touching  vitally  important 
things. 

So  far  from  this  being  the  fact,  it  is  just  because  the  feel- 
ings that  I  most  desire  to  cultivate  in  your  minds  are  those  of 
reverence  and  admiration,  that  I  am  so  earnest  to  prevent  you 
from  being  moved  to  either  by  trivial  or  false  semblances. 
This  is  the  thing  which  I  know — and  which,  if  you  labour 
faithfully,  you  shall  know  also, — that  in  Reverence  is  the  chief 
joy  and  power  of  life  ; — Reverence,  for  what  is  pure  and  bright 
in  your  own  youth  ;  for  what  is  true  and  tried  in  the  age  of 
others  ;  for  all  that  is  gracious  among  the  living,  great  among 
the  dead, — and  marvellous  in  the  Powers  that  cannot  die. 


LECTURE  in. 

THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 

66.  You  probably  recollect  that,  in  the  beginning  of  my  last 
lecture,  it  was  stated  that  fine  art  had,  and  could  have,  but 
three  functions  :  the  enforcing  of  the  religious  sentiments  of 
men,  the  perfecting  their  ethical  state,  and  the  doing  them 
material  service.  We  have  to-day  to  examine  the  mode  of  its 
action  in  the  second  power,  that  of  perfecting  the  morality  or 
ethical  state  of  men. 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


233 


Perfecting,  observe — not  producing. 

You  must  have  the  right  moral  state  first,  or  you  cannot 
have  the  art.  But  when  the  art  is  once  obtained,  its  reflected 
action  enhances  and  completes  the  moral  state  out  of  which  it 
arose,  and,  above  all,  communicates  the  exaltation  to  other 
minds  which  are  already  morally  capable  of  the  like. 

67.  For  instance,  take  the  art  of  singing,  and  the  simplest 
perfect  master  of  it,  (up  to  the  limits  of  his  nature)  whom  you 
can  find — a  skylark.  From  him  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to 
'sing  for  joy.'  You  must  get  the  moral  state  first,  the  pure 
gladness,  then  give  it  finished  expression  ;  and  it  is  perfected 
in  itself,  and  made  communicable  to  other  creatures  capable 
of  such  joy.  But  it  is  incommunicable  to  those  who  are  not 
prepared  to  receive  it. 

Now,  all  right  human  song  is,  similarly,  the  finished  expres- 
sion, by  art,  of  the  joy  or  grief  of  noble  persons,  for  right 
causes.  And  accurately  in  proportion  to  the  rightness  of  the 
cause,  and  purity  of  the  emotion,  is  the  possibility  oi  the  fine 
art.  A  maiden  may  sing  of  her  lost  love,  but  a  miser  cannot 
sing  of  his  lost  money.  And  with  absolute  precision  from 
highest  to  lowest,  the  fineness  of  the  possible  art  is  an  index 
of  the  moral  purity  and  majesty  of  the  emotion  it  expresses. 
You  may  test  it  practically  at  any  instant.  Question  with 
yourselves  respecting  any  feeling  that  has  taken  strong  pos- 
session of  your  mind,  c  Could  this  be  sung  by  a  master,  and 
sung  nobly,  with  a  true  melody  and  art  ?  ■  Then  it  is  a  right 
feeling.  Could  it  not  be  sung  at  all,  or  only  sung  ludicrously  ? 
It  is  a  base  one.  And  that  is  so  in  all  the  arts  ;  so  that  with 
mathematical  precision,  subject  to  no  error  or  exception,  the 
art  of  a  nation,  so  far  as  it  exists,  is  an  exponent  of  its  ethical 
state. 

68.  An  exponent,  observe,  and  exalting  influence  ;  but  not 
the  root  or  cause.  You  cannot  paint  or  sing  yourselves  into 
being  good  men  ;  you  must  be  good  men  before  you  can 
either  paint  or  sing,  and  then  the  colour  and  sound  will  com- 
plete in  you  all  that  is  best. 

And  this  it  was  that  I  called  upon  you  to  hear,  saying, 
'  listen  to  me  at  least  now/  in  the  first  lecture,  namely,  that  no 


240 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


art- teaching  could  be  of  use  to  you,  but  would  rather  be  harm- 
ful, unless  it  was  grafted  on  something  deeper  than  all  art 
For  indeed  not  only  with  this,  of  which  it  is  my  function  to 
show  you  the  laws,  but  much  more  with  the  art  of  all  men9 
which  you  came  here  chiefly  to  learn,  that  of  language,  the 
chief  vices  of  education  have  arisen  from  the  one  great  fallacy 
of  supposing  that  noble  language  is  a  communicable  trick  of 
grammar  and  accent,  instead  of  simply  the  careful  expression 
of  right  thought.  All  the  virtues  of  language  are,  in  their 
roots,  moral ;  it  becomes  accurate  if  the  speaker  desires  to  be 
true  ;  clear,  if  he  speaks  with  sympathy  and  a  desire  to  be  in- 
telligible ;  powerful,  if  he  has  earnestness  ;  pleasant,  if  he 
has  sense  of  rhythm  and  order.  There  are  no  other  virtues 
of  language  producible  by  art  than  these  :  but  let  me  mark 
more  deeply  for  an  instant  the  significance  of  one  of  them. 
Language,  I  said,  is  only  clear  when  it  is  sympathetic.  You 
can,  in  truth,  understand  a  man's  word  only  by  understand- 
ing his  temper.  Your  own  word  is  also  as  of  an  unknown 
tongue  to  him  unless  he  understands  yours.  And  it  is  this 
which  makes  the  art  of  language,  if  any  one  is  to  be  chosen 
separately  from  the  rest,  that  which  is  fittest  for  the  instru- 
ment of  a  gentleman's  education.  To  teach  the  meaning  of  a 
word  thoroughly  is  to  teach  the  nature  of  the  spirit  that  coined 
it  ;  the  secret  of  language  is  the  secret  of  sympathy,  and  its 
full  charm  is  possible  only  to  the  gentle.  And  thus  the  prin- 
ciples of  beautiful  speech  have  all  been  fixed  by  sincere  and 
kindly  speech.  On  the  laws  which  have  been  determined  by 
sincerity,  false  speech,  apparently  beautiful,  may  afterwards 
be  constructed  ;  but  all  such  utterance,  whether  in  oration  or 
poetry,  is  not  only  without  permanent  power,  but  it  is  de- 
structive of  the  principles  it  has  usurped.  So  long  as  no 
words  are  uttered  but  in  faithfulness,  so  long  the  art  of  lan- 
guage goes  on  exalting  itself  ;  but  the  moment  it  is  shaped 
and  chiselled  on  external  principles,  it  falls  into  frivolity,  and 
perishes.  And  this  truth  would  have  been  long  ago  manifest, 
had  it  not  been  that  in  periods  of  advanced  academical  science 
there  is  always  a  tendency  to  deny  the  sincerity  of  the  first 
masters  of  language.    Once  learn  to  write  gracefully  in  the 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


241 


manner  of  an  ancient  author,  and  we  are  apt  to  think  that  he 
also  wrote  in  the  manner  of  some  one  else.  But  no  noble  nor 
right  style  was  ever  yet  founded  but  out  of  a  sincere  heart. 

No  man  is  worth  reading  to  form  your  style,  who  does  not 
mean  what  he  says  ;  nor  was  any  great  style  ever  invented 
but  by  some  man  who  meant  what  he  said.  Find  out  the  be- 
ginner of  a  great  manner  of  writing,  and  you  have  also  found 
the  declarer  of  some  true  facts  or  sincere  passions  ;  and  your 
whole  method  of  reading  will  thus  be  quickened,  for,  being 
sure  that  your  author  really  meant  what  he  said,  you  will  be 
much  more  careful  to  ascertain  what  it  is  that  he  means. 

69.  And  of  yet  greater  importance  is  it  deeply  to  know  that 
every  beauty  possessed  by  the  language  of  a  nation  is  signifi- 
cant of  the  innermost  laws  of  its  being.  Keep  the  temper  of 
the  people  stern  and  manly  ;  make  their  associations  grave, 
courteous,  and  for  worthy  objects  ;  occupy  them  in  just  deeds  ; 
and  their  tongue  must  needs  be  a  grand  one.  Nor  is  it  pos- 
sible, therefore — observe  the  necessary  reflected  action — that 
any  tongue  should  be  a  noble  one,  of  which  the  words  are  not 
so  many  trumpet-calls  to  action.  All  great  languages  in- 
variably utter  great  things,  and  command  them  ;  they  cannot 
be  mimicked  but  by  obedience  ;  the  breath  of  them  is  inspira- 
tion because  it  is  not  only  vocal,  but  vital ;  and  you  can  only 
learn  to  speak  as  these  men  spoke,  by  becoming  what  these 
men  were. 

70.  Now  for  direct  confirmation  of  this,  I  want  you  to  think 
over  the  relation  of  expression  to  character  in  two  great 
masters  of  the  absolute  art  of  language,  Virgil  and  Pope.  You 
are  perhaps  surprised  at  the  last  name  ;  and  indeed  you  have 
in  English  much  higher  grasp  and  melody  of  language  from 
more  passionate  minds,  but  you  have  nothing  else,  in  its 
range,  so  perfect.  I  name,  therefore,  these  two  men,  because 
they  are  the  two  most  accomplished  Artists,  merely  as  such, 
whom  I  know  in  literature  ;  and  because  I  think  you  will  be 
afterwards  interested  in  investigating  how  the  infinite  grace  in 
the  words  of  the  one,  the  severity  in  those  of  the  other,  and 
the  precision  in  those  of  both,  arise  wholly  out  of  the  moral 
elements  of  their  minds  : — out  of  the  deep  tenderness  in  Virgil 


242 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


which  enabled  him  to  write  the  stories  of  Nisus  and  Lausus ; 
and  the  serene  and  just  benevolence  which  placed  Pope,  in  his 
theology,  two  centuries  in  advance  of  his  time,  and  enabled 
him  to  sum  the  law  of  noble  life  in  two  lines  which,  so  far  aa 
I  know,  are  the  most  complete,  the  most  concise,  and  the  most 
lofty  expression  of  moral  temper  existing  in  English  words  :— 

'  Never  elated- y  while  one  mail's  oppress  d  ; 
Never  dejected ,  while  another's  bless W 

I  wish  you  also  to  remember  these  lines  of  Pope,  and  to  make 
yourselves  entirely  masters  of  his  system  of  ethics  ;  because, 
putting  Shakespeare  aside  as  rather  the  world's  than  ours,  I 
hold  Pope  to  be  the  most  perfect  representative  we  have, 
since  Chaucer,  of  the  true  English  mind  ;  and  I  think  the 
Dunciad  is  the  most  absolutely  chiselled  and  monumental 
work  '  exacted  [  in  our  country.  You  will  find,  as  you  study 
Pope,  that  he  has  expressed  for  you,  in  the  strictest  language 
and  within  the  briefest  limits,  every  law  of  art,  of  criticism^ 
of  economy,  of  policy,  and,  finally,  of  a  benevolence,  humble, 
rational,  and  resigned,  contented  with  its  allotted  share  of  life, 
and  trusting  the  problem  of  its  salvation  to  Him  in  whose 
hand  lies  that  of  the  universe. 

71.  And  now  I  pass  to  the  arts  with  which  I  have  special 
concern,  in  which,  though  the  facts  are  exactly  the  same,  I 
shall  have  more  difficulty  in  proving  my  assertion,  because 
very  few  of  us  are  as  cognizant  of  the  merit  of  painting  as  we 
are  of  that  of  language  ;  and  I  can  only  show  you  whence  tha* 
merit  springs  from,  after  having  thoroughly  shown  you  m 
what  it  consists.  But,  in  the  meantime,  I  have  simply  to  tell 
you,  that  the  manual  arts  are  as  accurate  exponents  of  ethical 
state,  as  other  modes  of  expression  ;  first,  with  absolute  pre- 
cision, of  that  of  the  workman,  and  then  with  precision,  dis- 
guised by  many  distorting  influences,  of  that  of  the  nation  to 
which  he  belongs. 

And,  first,  they  are  a  perfect  exponent  of  the  mind  of  the 
workman  ;  but,  being  so,  remember,  if  the  mind  be  great  or 
complex,  the  art  is  not  an  easy  book  to  read  ;  for  we  must 
ourselves  possess  all  the  mental  characters  of  which  we  are  to 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS.  243 


read  the  signs.  No  man  can  read  the  evidence  of  labour  who 
is  not  himself  laborious,  for  he  does  not  know  what  the  work 
costs  :  nor  can  he  read  the  evidence  of  true  passion  if  he  is 
not  passionate  ;  nor  of  gentleness  if  he  is  not  gentle  :  and  the 
most  subtle  signs  of  fault  and  weakness  of  character  he  can 
only  judge  by  having  had  the  same  faults  to  fight  with.  I  my- 
self, for  instance,  know  impatient  work,  and  tired  work,  bei> 
ter  than  most  critics,  because  I  am  myself  always  impatient, 
and  often  tired  : — so  also,  the  patient  and  indefatigable  touch 
of  a  mighty  master  becomes  more  wonderful  to  me  than  to 
others.  Yet,  wonderful  in  no  mean  measure  it  will  be  to  you 
all,  when  I  make  it  manifest ; — and  as  soon  as  we  begin  our 
real  work,  and  you  have  learned  what  it  is  to  draw  a  true  line, 
I  shall  be  able  to  make  manifest  to  you, — and  indisputably 
so, — that  the  day's  work  of  a  man  like  Mantegna  or  Paul  Ver- 
onese consists  of  an  unfaltering,  uninterrupted  succession  of 
movements  of  the  hand  more  precise  than  those  of  the  finest 
fencer  :  the  pencil  leaving  one  point  and  arriving  at  another, 
not  only  with  unerring  precision  at  the  extremity  of  the  line, 
but  with  an  unerring  and  yet  varied  course — sometimes  over 
spaces  a  foot  or  more  in  extent — yet  a  course  so  determined 
everywhere  that  either  of  these  men  could,  and  Veronese  often 
does,  draw  a  finished  profile,  or  any  other  portion  of  the  con- 
tour of  a  face,  with  one  line,  not  afterwards  changed.  Try, 
first,  to  realise  to  yourselves  the  muscular  precision  of  that  ac- 
tion, and  the  intellectual  strain  of  it ;  for  the  movement  of  a 
fencer  is  perfect  in  practised  monotony  ;  but  the  movement 
of  the  hand  of  a  great  painter  is  at  every  instant  governed  by 
direct  and  new  intention.  Then  imagine  that  muscular  firm- 
ness and  subtlety,  and  the  instantaneously  selective  and  ordi- 
nant  energy  of  the  brain,  sustained  all  day  long,  not  only 
without  fatigue,  but  with  a  visible  joy  in  the  exertion,  like 
that  which  an  eagle  seems  to  take  in  the  wave  of  his  wings ; 
and  this  all  life  long,  and  through  long  life,  not  only  without 
failure  of  power,  but  with  visible  increase  of  it,  until  the  ac- 
tually organic  changes  of  old  age.  And  then  consider,  so  far 
as  you  know  anything  of  physiology,  what  sort  of  an  ethical 
state  of  body  and  mind  that  means  ! — ethic  through  agea 


244 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


past !  what  fineness  of  race  there  must  be  to  get  it,  what  ex- 
quisite balance  and  symmetry  of  the  vital  powers  !  And  then, 
finally,  determine  for  yourselves  whether  a  manhood  like  that 
is  consistent  with  any  viciousness  of  soul,  with  any  mean  anxi- 
ety, any  gnawing  lust,  any  wretchedness  of  spite  or  remorse, 
any  consciousness  of  rebellion  against  law  of  Gocl  or  man,  or 
any  actual,  though  unconscious,  violation  of  even  the  least  law 
to  which  obedience  is  essential  for  the  glory  of  life,  and  the 
pleasing  of  its  Giver. 

72.  It  is,  of  course,  true  that  many  of  the  strong  masters 
had  deep  faults  of  character,  but  their  faults  always  show  in 
their  work.  It  is  true  that  some  could  not  govern  their  pas- 
sions ;  if  so,  they  died  young,  or  they  painted  ill  when  old. 
But  the  greater  part  of  our  misapprehension  in  the  whole 
matter  is  from  our  not  having  well  known  who  the  great 
painters  were,  and  taking  delight  in  the  petty  skill  that  was 
bred  in  the  fumes  of  the  taverns  of  the  North,  instead  of  theirs 
who  breathed  empyreal  air,  sons  of  the  morning,  under  the 
woods  of  Assisi  and  the  crags  of  Cadore. 

73.  It  is  true  however  also,  as  I  have  pointed  out  long  ago, 
that  the  strong  masters  fall  into  two  great  divisions,  one  leading 
simple  and  natural  lives,  the  other  restrained  in  a  Puritanism 
of  the  worship  of  beauty  ;  and  these  two  manners  of  life  you 
may  recognise  in  a  moment  by  their  work.  Generally  the 
naturalists  are  the  strongest ;  but  there  are  two  of  the  Puri- 
tans, whose  work  if  I  can  succeed  in  making  clearly  under- 
standable to  you  during  my  three  years  here,  it  is  all  I  need  care 
to  do.  But  of  these  two  Puritans  one  I  cannot  name  to  you, 
and  the  other  I  at  present  Avill  not.  One  I  cannot,  for  no  one 
knows  his  name,  except  the  baptismal  one,  Bernard,  or  '  dear 
little  Bernard  ' — Bernardino,  called,  from  his  birthplace, 
(Luino,  on  the  lago  Maggiore,)  Bernard  of  Luino.  The  other 
is  a  Venetian,  of  whom  many  of  you  probably  have  never 
heard,  and  of  whom,  through  me,  you  shall  not  hear  until  I 
have  tried  to  get  some  picture  by  him  over  to  England. 

74.  Observe  then,  this  Puritanism  in  the  worship  of  beauty, 
though  sometimes  weak,  is  always  honourable  and  amiable, 
and  the  exact  reverse  of  the  false  Puritanism,  which  consists! 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


245 


in  the  dread  or  disdain  of  beauty.  And  in  order  to  treat  my 
subject  rightly,  I  ought  to  proceed  from  the  skill  of  art  to  the 
choice  of  its  subject,  and  show  you  how  the  moral  temper  of 
the  workman  is  shown  by  his  seeking  lovely  forms  and 
thoughts  to  express,  as  well  as  by  the  force  of  his  hand  in  ex- 
pression. But  I  need  not  now  urge  this  part  of  the  proof  on 
you,  because  you  are  already,  I  believe,  sufficiently  conscious 
of  the  truth  in  this  matter,  and  also  I  have  already  said  enough 
of  it  in  my  writings  ;  whereas  I  have  not  at  all  said  enough  of 
the  infallibleness  of  fine  technical  work  as  a  proof  of  every 
other  good  power.  And  indeed  it  was  long  before  I  myself 
understood  the  true  meaning  of  the  pride  of  the  greatest  men 
in  their  mere  execution,  shown,  for  a  permanent  lesson  to  us, 
in  the  stories  which,  whether  true  or  not,  indicate  with  abso- 
lute accuracy  the  general  conviction  of  great  artists  ; — the 
stories  of  the  contest  of  Apelles  and  Protogenes  in  a  line  only, 
(of  which  I  can  promise  you,  you  shall  know  the  meaning  to 
some  purpose  in  a  little  while), — the  story  of  the  circle  of  Giotto, 
and  especially,  which  you  may  perhaps  not  have  observed, 
the  expression  of  Diirer  in  his  inscription  on  the  drawings 
sent  him  by  Eaphael.  These  figures,  he  says,  c  Eaphael  drew 
and  sent  to  Albert  Diirer  in  Nurnberg,  to  show  him  • — What? 
Not  his  invention,  nor  his  beauty  of  expression,  but  'sein 
Hand  zu  weisen,'  '  To  show  him  his  hand.'  And  you  will  find, 
as  you  examine  farther,  that  all  inferior  artists  are  continually 
trying  to  escape  from  the  necessity  of  sound  work,  and  either 
indulging  themselves  in  their  delights  in  subject,  or  pluming 
themselves  on  their  noble  motives  for  attempting  what  they 
cannot  perform  ;  (and  observe,  by  the  way,  that  a  great  deal 
of  what  is  mistaken  for  conscientious  motive  is  nothing  but  a 
very  pestilent,  because  very  subtle,  condition  of  vanity);  where- 
as the  great  men  always  understand  at  once  that  the  first  moral- 
ity of  a  painter,  as  of  everybody  else,  is  to  know  his  business  ; 
and  so  earnest  are  they  in  this,  that  many,  whose  lives  you  would 
think,  by  the  results  of  their  work,  had  been  passed  in  strong 
emotion,  have  in  reality  subdued  themselves,  though  capable 
of  the  very  strongest  psssions,  into  a  calm  as  absolute  as  that 
of  a  deeply  sheltered  mountain  lake,  which  reflects  every  agi- 


246 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


tation  of  the  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  every  change  of  the  shad- 
ows on  the  hills,  but  is  itself  motionless. 

75.  Finally,  you  must  remember  that  great  obscurity  has 
been  brought  upon  the  truth  in  this  matter  by  the  want  of  in- 
tegrity and  simplicity  in  our  modern  life.  I  mean  integrity 
in  the  Latin  sense,  wholeness.  Everything  is  broken  up,  and 
mingled  in  confusion,  both  in  our  habits  and  thoughts  ;  besides 
being  in  great  part  imitative  :  so  that  you  not  only  cannot  tell 
what  a  man  is,  but  sometimes  you  cannot  tell  whether  he  is, 
at  all ! — whether  you  have  indeed  to  do  with  a  spirit,  or  only 
with  an  echo.  And  thus  the  same  inconsistencies  appear 
now,  between  the  work  of  artists  of  merit  and  their  personal 
characters,  as  those  which  you  find  continually  disappointing 
expectation  in  the  lives  of  men  of  modern  literary  power ;  — 
the  same  conditions  of  society  having  obscured  or  misdirected 
the  best  qualities  of  the  imagination,  both  in  our  literature 
and  art.  Thus  there  is  no  serious  question  with  any  of  us  as 
to  the  personal  character  of  Dante  and  Giotto,  of  Shakespeare 
and  Holbein  ;  but  we  pause  timidly  in  the  attempt  to  analyse 
the  moral  laws  of  the  art  skill  in  recent  poets,  novelists,  and 
painters. 

76.  Let  me  assure  you  once  for  all,  that  as  you  grow  older, 
if  you  enable  yourselves  to  distinguish,  by  the  truth  of  your 
own  lives,  what  is  true  in  those  of  other  men,  you  will  gradu- 
ally perceive  that  all  good  has  its  origin  in  good,  never  in  evil; 
that  the  fact  of  either  literature  or  painting  being  truly  fine 
of  their  kind,  whatever  their  mistaken  aim,  or  partial  error,  is 
proof  of  their  noble  origin  :  and  that,  if  there  is  indeed  ster- 
ling value  in  the  thing  done,  it  has  come  of  a  sterling  worth 
of  the  soul  that  did  it,  however  alloyed  or  defiled  by  conditions 
of  sin  which  are  sometimes  more  appalling  or  more  strange  than 
those  which  all  may  detect  in  their  own  hearts,  because  they 
are  part  of  a  personality  altogether  larger  than  ours,  and  as 
far  beyond  our  judgment  in  its  darkness  as  beyond  our  fol- 
lowing in  its  light.  And  it  is  sufficient  warning  against  what 
some  might  dread  as  the  probable  effect  of  such  a  conviction 
on  your  own  minds,  namely,  that  you  might  permit  yourselves 
in  the  weaknesses  which  you  imagined  to  be  allied  to  genius, 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS.  247 


when  they  took  the  form  of  personal  temptations ; — it  is  surely, 
I  say,  sufficient  warning  against  so  mean  a  folly,  to  discern,  as 
you  may  with  little  pains,  that,  of  all  human  existences,  the 
lives  of  men  of  that  distorted  and  tainted  nobility  of  intellect 
are  probably  the  most  miserable. 

77.  I  pass  to  the  second,  and  for  us  the  more  practically 
important  question,  "What  is  the  effect  of  noble  art  upon  other 
men  ;  what  has  it  done  for  national  morality  in  time  past ;  and 
what  effect  is  the  extended  knowledge  or  possession  of  it  likely 
to  have  upon  us  now  ?  And  here  we  are  at  once  met  by  the 
facts,  which  are  as  gloomy  as  indisputable,  that,  while  many 
peasant  populations,  among  whom  scarcely  the  rudest  practice 
of  art  has  ever  been  attempted,  have  lived  in  comparative  in- 
nocence, honour,  and  happiness,  the  worst  foulness  and  cruelty 
of  savage  tribes  have  been  frequently  associated  with  fine  in- 
genuities of  decorative  design  ;  also,  that  no  people  has  ever 
attained  the  higher  stages  of  art  skill,  except  at  a  period  of  its 
civilisation  which  wras  sullied  by  frequent,  violent,  and  even 
monstrous  crime ;  and,  lastly,  that  the  attaining  of  perfection 
in  art  power,  has  been  hitherto,  in  every  nation,  the  accurate 
signal  of  the  beginning  of  its  ruin. 

78.  Respecting  which  phenomena,  observe  first,  that  although 
good  never  springs  out  of  evil,  it  is  developed  to  its  highest 
by  contention  with  evil.  There  are  some  groups  of  peasantry, 
in  far-away  nooks  of  Christian  countries,  who  are  nearly  as  in- 
nocent as  lambs  ;  but  the  morality  which  gives  power  to  art  is 
the  morality  of  men,  not  of  cattle. 

Secondly,  the  virtues  of  the  inhabitants  of  many  country 
districts  are  apparent,  not  real ;  their  lives  are  indeed  artless, 
but  not  innocent ;  and  it  is  only  the  monotony  of  circum- 
stances, and  the  absence  of  temptation, which  prevent  the  exhi- 
bition of  evil  passions  not  less  real  because  often  dormant, 
nor  less  foul  because  shown  only  in  petty  faults,  or  inactive 
malignities. 

79.  But  you  will  observe  also  that  absolute  artlessness,  to 
men  in  any  kind  of  moral  health,  is  impossible  ;  they  have  al- 
ways, at  least,  the  art  by  which  they  live — agriculture  or  sea- 
manship ;  and  in  these  industries,  skilfully  practised,  you  will 


248 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


find  the  law  of  their  moral  training ;  while,  whatever  the  ad- 
versity of  circumstances,  every  rightly-minded  peasantry,  such 
as  that  of  Sweden,  Denmark,  Bavaria,  or  Switzerland,  has  as- 
sociated with  its  needful  industry  a  quite  studied  school  of 
pleasurable  art  in  dress;  and  generally  also  in  song,  and  simple 
domestic  architecture. 

80.  Again,  I  need  not  repeat  to  you  here  what  I  endeav- 
oured to  explain  in  the  first  lecture  in  the  book  I  called  '  The 
Two  Paths/  respecting  the  arts  of  savage  races  :  but  I  may 
now  note  briefly  that  such  arts  are  the  result  of  an  intellectual 
activity  which  has  found  no  room  to  expand,  and  which  the 
tyranny  of  nature  or  of  man  has  condemned  to  disease  through 
arrested  growth.  And  where  neither  Christianity,  nor  any 
other  religion  conveying  some  moral  help,  has  reached,  the 
animal  energy  of  such  races  necessarily  flames  into  ghastly 
conditions  of  evil,  and  the  grotesque  or  frightful  forms  as- 
sumed by  their  art  are  precisely  indicative  of  their  distorted 
moral  nature. 

81.  But  the  truly  great  nations  nearly  always  begin  from  a 
race  possessing  this  imaginative  power ;  and  for  some  time 
their  progress  is  very  slow,  and  their  state  not  one  of  inno- 
cence, but  of  feverish  and  faultful  animal  energy.  This  is 
gradually  subdued  and  exalted  into  bright  human  life  ;  the 
art  instinct  purifying  itself  with  the  rest  of  the  nature,  until 
social  perfectness  is  nearly  reached ;  and  then  comes  the 
period  when  conscience  and  intellect  are  so  highly  developed, 
that  new  forms  of  error  begin  in  the  inability  to  fulfil  the  de- 
mands of  the  one,  or  to  answer  the  doubts  of  the  other. 
Then  the  wholeness  of  the  people  is  lost ;  all  kinds  of  hypoc- 
risies and  oppositions  of  science  develope  themselves ;  their 
faith  is  questioned  on  one  side,  and  compromised  with  on  the 
other ;  wealth  commonly  increases  at  the  same  period  to  a 
destructive  extent  ;  luxury  follows  ;  and  the  ruin  of  the  nation 
is  then  certain  :  while  the  arts,  all  this  time,  are  simply,  as  I 
said  at  first,  the  exponents  of  each  phase  of  its  moral  state, 
and  no  more  control  it  in  its  political  career  than  the  gleam 
of  the  firefly  guides  its  oscillation.  It  is  true  that  their  most 
splendid  results  are  usually  obtained  in  the  swiftness  of  the 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS.  249 


power  which  is  hurrying  to  the  precipice  ;  but  to  lay  the 
charge  of  the  catastrophe  to  the  art  by  which  it  is  illumined, 
is  to  find  a  cause  for  the  cataract  in  the  hues  of  its  iris.  It  is 
true  that  the  colossal  vices  belonging  to  periods  of  great 
national  wealth  (for  wealth,  you  will  find,  is  the  real  root  of 
all  evil)  can  turn  every  good  gift  and  skill  of  nature  or  of  man 
to  evil  purpose.  If,  in  such  times,  fair  pictures  have  been 
misused,  how  much  more  fair  realities  ?  And  if  Miranda  is 
immoral  to  Caliban,  is  that  Miranda's  fault  ? 

82.  And  I  could  easily  go  on  to  trace  for  you  what,  at  the 
moment  I  speak,  is  signified,  in  our  own  national  character, 
by  the  forms  of  art,  and  unhappily  also  by  the  forms  of  what 
is  not  art,  but  areata,  that  exist  among  us.  But  the  more 
important  question  is,  What  will  be  signified  by  them  ;  what 
is  there  in  us  now  of  worth  and  strength  which,  under  our 
new  and  partly  accidental  impulse  towards  formative  labour, 
may  be  by  that  expressed,  and  by  that  fortified  ? 

Would  it  not  be  well  to  know  this  ?  Nay,  irrespective  of 
all  future  work,  is  it  not  the  first  thing  we  should  want  to 
know,  what  stuff  we  are  made  of — how  far  we  are  ayaOol  or 
kolkoI — good,  or  good  for  nothing  ?  We  may  all  know  that, 
each  of  ourselves,  easily  enough,  if  we  like  to  put  one  grave 
question  well  home. 

83.  Supposing  it  were  told  any  of  you  by  a  physician  whose 
word  you  could  not  but  trust,  that  you  had  not  more  than 
seven  days  to  live.  And  suppose  also  that,  by  the  manner  of 
your  education  it  had  happened  to  you,  as  it  has  happened  to 
many,  never  to  have  heard  of  any  future  state,  or  not  to  have 
credited  what  you  heard  ;  and  therefore  that  you  had  to  face 
this  fact  of  the  approach  of  death  in  its  simplicity  :  fearing  no 
punishment  for  any  sin  that  you  might  have  before  committed, 
or  in  the  coming  days  might  determine  to  commit ;  and  having 
similarly  no  hope  of  reward  for  past,  or  yet  possible,  virtue  ; 
nor  even  of  any  consciousness  whatever  to  be  left  to  you,  after 
the  seventh  day  had  ended,  either  of  the  results  of  your  acts 
to  those  whom  you  loved,  or  of  the  feelings  of  any  survivors 
towards  you.  Then  the  maimer  in  which  you  would  spend  the 
seven  days  is  an  exact  measure  of  the  morality  of  your  nature. 


250 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


84.  I  know  that  some  of  you,  and  I  believe  the  greater  num« 
ber  of  you,  would,  in  such  a  case,  spend  the  granted  days  en- 
tirely as  you  ought.  Neither  in  numbering  the  errors,  or  de- 
ploring the  pleasures  of  the  past ;  nor  in  grasping  at  vile  good 
in  the  present,  nor  vainly  lamenting  the  darkness  of  the 
future  ;  but  in  instant  and  earnest  execution  of  whatever  it 
might  be  possible  for  you  to  accomplish  in  the  time,  in  set- 
ting your  affairs  in  order,  and  in  providing  for  the  future 
comfort,  and — so  far  as  you  might  by  any  message  or  record 
of  yourself,  for  the  consolation — of  those  whom  you  loved, 
and  by  whom  you  desired  to  be  remembered,  not  for  your 
good,  but  for  theirs.  How  far  you  might  fail  through  human 
weakness,  in  shame  for  the  past,  despair  at  the  little  that  could 
in  the  remnant  of  life  be  accomplished,  or  the  intolerable  pain 
of  broken  affection,  would  depend  wholly  on  the  degree  in 
which  your  nature  had  been  depressed  or  fortified  by  the  man- 
ner of  your  past  life.  But  I  think  there  are  few  of  you  Avho 
would  not  spend  those  last  days  better  than  all  that  had  pre- 
ceded them. 

85.  If  you  look  accurately  through  the  records  of  the  lives 
that  have  been  most  useful  to  humanity,  you  will  find  that  all 
that  has  been  done  best,  has  been  done  so ; — that  to  the  clear- 
est intellects  and  highest  souls, — to  the  true  children  of  the 
Father,  with  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  one  day,  their  poor 
seventy  years  are  but  as  seven  days.  The  removal  of  the 
shadow  of  death  from  them  to  an  uncertain,  but  always  nar- 
row, distance,  never  takes  away  from  them  their  intuition  of 
its  approach  ;  the  extending  to  them  of  a  few  hours  more 
or  less  of  light  abates  not  their  acknowledgment  of  the  in- 
finitude that  must  be  known  to  remain  beyond  their  knowl- 
edge,— clone  beyond  their  deeds  :  the  unprofitableness  of  their 
momentary  service  is  wrought  in  a  magnificent  despair,  and 
their  very  honour  is  bequeathed  by  them  for  the  joy  of  others, 
as  they  lie  down  to  their  rest,  regarding  for  themselves  the 
voice  of  men  no  more. 

86.  The  best  things,  I  repeat  to  you,  have  been  done  thus, 
and  therefore,  sorrowfully.  But  the  greatest  part  of  the  good 
work  of  the  world  is  done  either  in  pure  and  unvexed  instinct 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


251 


of  duty,  ' I  have  stubbed  Thornaby  waste,1  or  else,  and  better, 
it  is  cheerful  and  helpful  doing  of  what  the  hand  finds  to  do, 
in  surety  that  at  evening  time,  whatsoever  is  right,  the  Mastei 
will  give.  And  that  it  be  worthily  done,  depends  wholly  on 
that  ultimate  quantity  of  worth  which  you  can  measure,  each 
in  himself,  by  the  test  I  have  just  given  you.  For  that  test5 
observe,  will  mark  to  you  the  precise  force,  first  of  your  ab- 
solute courage,  and  then  of  the  energy  in  you  for  the  right 
ordering  of  things,  and  the  kindly  dealing  with  persons.  You 
have  cut  away  from  these  two  instincts  every  selfish  or  com- 
mon motive,  and  left  nothing  but  the  energies  of  Order  and 
of  Love. 

87.  Now,  where  those  two  roots  are  set,  all  the  other  pow- 
ers and  desires  find  right  nourishment,  and  become  to  their 
own  utmost,  helpful  to  others  and  pleasurable  to  ourselves. 
And  so  far  as  those  two  springs  of  action  are  not  in  us,  all 
other  powers  become  corrupt  or  dead  ;  even  the  love  of  truth, 
apart  from  these,  hardens  into  an  insolent  and  cold  avarice  of 
knowledge,  which  unused,  is  more  vain  than  unused  gold. 

88.  These,  then,  are  the  two  essential  instincts  of  human- 
ity :  the  love  of  Order  and  the  love  of  Kindness.  By  the 
love  of  order  the  moral  energy  is  to  deal  with  the  earth,  and 
to  dress  it,  and  keep  it ;  and  with  all  rebellious  and  dissolute 
forces  in  lower  creatures,  or  in  ourselves.  By  the  love  of 
doing  kindness  it  is  to  deal  rightly  with  all  surrounding  life. 
And  then,  grafted  on  these,  we  are  to  make  every  other  pas- 
sion perfect ;  so  that  they  may  every  one  have  full  strength 
and  yet  be  absolutely  under  control. 

89.  Every  one  must  be  strong,  every  one  perfect,  every  one 
obedient  as  a  war  horse.  And  it  is  among  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  of  mysticism  to  which  eternal  truth  is  attached,  that 
the  chariot  race,  which  Plato  uses  as  an  image  of  moral  gov- 
ernment, and  which  is  indeed  the  most  perfect  type  of  it  in 
any  visible  skill  of  men,  should  have  been  made  by  the  Greeks 
the  continual  subject  of  their  best  poetry  and  best  art.  Never- 
theless, Plato's  use  of  it  is  not  altogether  true.  There  is  no 
black  horse  in  the  chariot  of  the  soul.  One  of  the  driver's 
worst  faults  is  in  starving  his  horses  ;  another,  in  not  break- 


252 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ing  them  early  enough  ;  but  they  are  all  good.  Take,  for  ex« 
ample,  one  usually  thought  of  as  wholly  evil — that  of  Anger, 
leading  to  vengeance.  I  believe  it  to  be  quite  one  of  the 
crowning  wickednesses  of  this  age  that  we  have  starved  and 
chilled  our  faculty  of  indignation,  and  neither  desire  nor  dare 
to  punish  crimes  justly.  We  have  taken  up  the  benevolent 
idea,  forsooth,  that  justice  is  to  be  preventive  instead  of  vin- 
dictive ;  and  we  imagine  that  we  are  to  punish,  not  in  anger, 
but  in  expediency  ;  not  that  we  may  give  deserved  pain  to  the 
person  in  fault,  but  that  we  may  frighten  other  people  from 
committing  the  same  fault.  The  beautiful  theory  of  this  non- 
vindictive  justice  is,  that  having  convicted  a  man  of  a  crime 
worthy  of  death,  we  entirely  pardon  the  criminal,  restore  him 
to  his  place  in  our  affection  and  esteem,  and  then  hang  him, 
not  as  a  malefactor,  but  as  a  scarecrow.  That  is  the  theory. 
And  the  practice  is,  that  we  send  a  child  to  prison  for  a  month 
for  stealing  a  handful  of  walnuts,  for  fear  that  other  children 
should  come  to  steal  more  of  our  walnuts.  And  we  do  not 
punish  a  swindler  for  ruining  a  thousand  families,  because  wre 
think  swindling  is  a  wholesome  excitement  to  trade. 

90.  But  all  true  justice  is  vindictive  to  vice  as  it  is  reward- 
ing to  virtue.  Only — and  herein  it  is  distinguished  from  per- 
sonal revenge — it  is  vindictive  of  the  wrong  done,  not  of  the 
wrong  done  to  us.  It  is  the  national  expression  of  deliberate 
anger,  as  of  deliberate  gratitude  ;  it  is  not  exemplary,  or  even 
corrective,  but  essentially  retributive  ;  it  is  the  absolute  art  of 
measured  recompense,  giving  honour  where  honour  is  due, 
and  shame  where  shame  is  due,  and  joy  where  joy  is  due,  and 
pain  where  pain  is  due.  It  is  neither  educational,  for  men 
are  to  be  educated  by  wholesome  habit,  not  by  rewards  and 
punishments ;  nor  is  it  preventive,  for  it  is  to  be  executed 
without  regard  to  any  consequences  ;  but  only  for  righteous- 
ness' sake,  a  righteous  nation  does  judgment  and  justice.  Bat 
in  this,  as  in  all  other  instances,  the  rightness  of  the  second- 
ary passion  depends  on  its  being  grafted  on  those  two  pri- 
mary instincts,  the  love  of  order  and  of  kindness,  so  that  in- 
dignation itself  is  against  the  wounding  of  love.  Do  you 
think  the  pajwi  'A^A^os  came  of  a  hard  heart  in  Achilles,  or 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


253 


the  'Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas,'  of  a  hard  heart  in  Anchises' 
son  ? 

91.  And  now,  if  with  this  clue  through  the  labyrinth  of 
them,  you  remember  the  course  of  the  arts  of  great  nations, 
you  will  perceive  that  whatever  has  prospered,  and  become 
lovely,  had  its  beginning — for  no  other  was  possible — in  the 
love  of  order  in  material  things  associated  with  true  ^LKaioaw^ 
and  the  desire  of  beauty  in  material  things,  which  is  associ- 
ated with  true  affection,  charitas  ;  and  with  the  innumerable 
conditions  of  true  gentleness  expressed  by  the  different  uses 
of  the  words  x^P^  and  gratia.  You  will  find  that  this  love  of 
beauty  is  an  essential  part  of  all  healthy  human  nature,  and 
though  it  can  long  co-exist  with  states  of  life  in  many  other 
respects  unvirtuous,  it  is  itself  wholly  good  ; — the  direct  ad- 
versary of  envy,  avarice,  mean  worldly  care,  and  especially  of 
cruelty.  It  entirely  perishes  when  these  are  wilfully  indulged  ; 
and  the  men  in  whom  it  has  been  most  strong  have  always 
been  compassionate,  and  lovers  of  justice,  and  the  earliest 
discerners  and  declarers  of  things  conducive  to  the  happiness 
of  mankind. 

92.  Nearly  every  important  truth  respecting  the  love  of 
beauty  in  its  familiar  relations  to  human  life  was  mythically 
expressed  by  the  Greeks  in  their  various  accounts  of  the  par- 
entage and  offices  of  the  Graces.  But  one  fact,  the  most  vital 
of  all,  they  could  not  in  its  fulness  perceive,  namely,  that  the 
intensity  of  other  perceptions  of  beauty  is  exactly  commensu- 
rate with  the  imaginative  purity  of  the  passion  of  love,  and 
with  the  singleness  of  its  devotion.  They  were  not  fully  con- 
scious of,  and  could  not  therefore  either  mythically  or  philo- 
sophically express,  the  deep  relation  within  themselves  be- 
tween their  power  of  perceiving  beauty,  and  the  honour  of 
domestic  affection  which  found  their  sternest  themes  of  tragedy 
in  the  infringement  of  its  laws  ; — which  made  the  rape  of 
Helen  the  chief  subject  of  their  epic  poetry,  and  which  fast- 
ened their  clearest  symbolism  of  resurrection  on  the  story  of 
Alcestis.  Unhappily,  the  subordinate  position  of  their  most 
revered  women,  and  the  partial  corruption  of  feeling  towards 
them  by  the  presence  of  certain  other  singular  states  of  in- 


254 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ferior  passion  which  it  is  as  difficult  as  grievous  to  analyse, 
arrested  the  ethical  as  well  as  the  formative  progress  of  the 
Greek  mind  ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  an  interval  of  nearly 
two  thousand  years  of  various  error  and  pain,  that,  partly  as 
the  true  reward  of  Christian  warfare  nobly  sustained  through 
centuries  of  trial,  and  partly  as  the  visionary  culmination  of 
the  faith  which  saw  in  a  maiden's  purity  the  link  between  God 
and  her  race,  the  highest  and  holiest  strength  of  mortal  love 
was  reached  ;  and,  together  with  it,  in  the  song  of  Dante,  and 
the  painting  of  Bernard  of  Luino  and  his  fellows,  the  percep- 
tion, and  embodiment  for  ever  of  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 
whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report ; — that,  if  there  be  any  virtue,  and  if  there  be  any  praise, 
men  might- think  on  those  things. 

93 .  You  probably  observed  the  expression  I  used  a  moment 
ago,  the  imaginative  purity  of  the  passion  of  love.  I  have  not 
yet  spoken,  nor  is  it  possible  for  me  to-day  to  speak  adequately, 
of  the  moral  power  of  the  imagination  :  but  you  may  for 
yourselves  enough  discern  its  nature  merely  by  comparing  the 
dignity  of  the  relations  between  the  sexes,  from  their  lowest 
level  in  moths  or  mollusca,  through  the  higher  creatures  in 
whom  they  become  a  domestic  influence  and  law,  up  to  the 
love  of  pure  men  and  women  ;  and,  finally,  to  the  ideal  love 
which  animated  chivalry.  Throughout  this  vast  ascent  it  is 
the  gradual  increase  of  the  imaginative  faculty  which  exalts 
and  enlarges  the  authority  of  the  passion  until,  at  its  height, 
it  is  the  bulwark  of  patience,  the  tutor  of  honour,  and  the 
perfectness  of  praise. 

94.  You  will  find  farther,  that  as  of  love,  so  of  all  the  other 
passions,  the  right  government  and  exaltation  begins  in  that 
of  the  Imagination,  which  is  lord  over  them.  For  to  subdue 
the  passions,  which  is  thought  so  often  to  be  the  sum  of  duty 
respecting  them,  is  possible  enough  to  a  proud  dulness  ;  but 
to  excite  them  rightly,  and  make  them  strong  for  good,  is  the 
work  of  the  unselfish  imagination.  It  is  constantly  said  that 
human  nature  is  heartless.  Do  not  believe  it.  Human  nat- 
ure is  kind  and  generous  ;  but  it  is  narrow  and  blind  ;  and 
can  only  with  difficulty  conceive  anything  but  what  it  imme- 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS. 


255 


diately  sees  and  feels.  People  would  instantly  care  for  others 
as  well  as  themselves  if  only  they  could  imagine  others  as 
well  as  themselves.  Let  a  child  fall  into  the  river  before  the 
roughest  man's  eyes  ; — he  will  usually  do  what  he  can  to  get 
it  out,  even  at  some  risk  to  himself ;  and  all.  the  town  will 
triumph  in  the  saving  of  one  little  life.  Let  the  same  man  be 
shown  that  hundreds  of  children  are  dying  of  fever  for  want 
of  some  sanitary  measure  which  it  will  cost  him  trouble  to 
urge,  and  he  will  make  no  effort ;  and  probably  all  the  town 
would  resist  him  if  he  did.  So,  also,  the  lives  of  many  de- 
serving women  are  passed  in  a  succession  of  petty  anxieties 
about  themselves,  and  gleaning  of  minute  interests  and  mean 
pleasures  in  their  immediate  circle,  because  they  are  never 
taught  to  make  any  effort  to  look  beyond  it ;  or  to  know  any- 
thing about  the  mighty  world  in  which  their  lives  are  fading, 
like  blades  of  bitter  grass  in  fruitless  fields. 

95.  I  had  intended  to  enlarge  on  this — and  yet  more  on  the 
kingdom  which  every  man  holds  in  his  conceptive  faculty,  to 
be  peopled  with  active  thoughts  and  lovely  presences,  or  left 
waste  for  the  springing  up  of  those  dark  desires  and  dreams 
of  which  it  is  written  that  '  every  imagination  of  the  thoughts 
of  man's  heart  is  evil  continually.'  True,  and  a  thousand 
times  true  it  is,  that,  here  at  least,  '  greater  is  he  that  ruleth 
his  spirit,  than  he  that  taketh  a  city.'  But  this  you  can  partly 
follow  out  for  yourselves  without  help,  partly  we  must  leave 
it  for  future  enquiry.  I  press  to  the  conclusion  which  I  wish 
to  leave  with  you,  that  all  you  can  rightly  do,  or  honourably 
become,  depends  on  the  government  of  these  two  instincts  of 
order  and  kindness,  by  this  great  Imaginative  faculty,  which 
gives  you  inheritance  of  the  past,  grasp  of  the  present,  au- 
thority over  the  future.  Map  out  the  spaces  of  your  possible 
lives  by  its  help  ;  measure  the  range  of  their  possible  agency  ! 
On  the  walls  and  towers  of  this  your  fair  city,  there  is  not  an 
ornament  of  which  the  first  origin  may  not  be  traced  back  to 
the  thoughts  of  men  who  died  two  thousand  years  ago. 
Whom  will  you  be  governing  by  your  thoughts,  two  thousand 
years  hence  ?  Think  of  it,  and  you  will  find  that  so  far  from 
art  being  immoral,  little  else  except  art  is  moral ;  that  life 


256 


LECTURES  OK  ART. 


without  industry  is  guilt,  and  industry  without  art  is  brutat 
ity  :  and  for  the  words  'good'  and  'wicked,'  used  of  men, 
you  may  almost  substitute  the  words  '  Makers '  or  '  Destroy- 
ers.' Far  the  greater  part  of  the  seeming  prosperity  of  the 
world  is,  so  far  as  our  present  knowledge  extends,  vain : 
wholly  useless  for  any  kind  of  good,  but  having  assigned,  to  it 
a  certain  inevitable  sequence  of  destruction  and  of  sorrow. 
Its  stress  is  only  the  stress  of  wandering  storm  ;  its  beauty 
the  hectic  of  plague  :  and  what  is  called  the  history  of  man- 
kind is  too  often  the  record  of  the  whirlwind,  and  the  map  of 
the  spreading  of  the  leprosy.  But  underneath  all  that,  or  in 
narrow  spaces  of  dominion  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  work  of 
every  man,  '  qui  non  accepit  in  vanitatem  animain  suam,'  en- 
dures and  prospers  ;  a  small  remnant  or  green  bud  of  it 
prevailing  at  last  over  evil.  And  though  faint  with  sickness, 
and  encumbered  in  ruin,  the  true  workers  redeem  inch  by 
inch  the  wilderness  into  garden  ground  ;  by  the  help  of  their 
joined  hands  the  order  of  all  things  is  surely  sustained  and 
vitally  expanded,  and  although  with  strange  vacillation,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  watcher,  the  morning  cometh,  and  also  the  night, 
there  is  no  hour  of  human  existence  that  does  not  draw  on 
towards  the  perfect  day. 

96.  And  perfect  the  day  shall  be,  when  it  is  of  all  men  un- 
derstood that  the  beauty  of  Holiness  must  be  in  labour  as  well 
as  in  rest.  Nay  !  more,  if  it  may  be,  in  labour  ;  in  our 
strength,  rather  than  in  our  weakness  ;  and  in  the  choice  of 
what  we  shall  work  for  through  the  six  days,  and  may  know 
to  be  good  at  their  evening  time,  than  in  the  choice  of  what 
we  pray  for  on  the  seventh,  of  reward  or  repose.  With  the 
multitude  that  keep  holiday,  we  may  perhaps  sometimes 
vainly  have  gone  up  to  the  house  of  the  Lord,  and .  vainly 
there  asked  for  what  we  fancied  would  be  mercy  ;  but  for  the 
few  who  labour  as  their  Lord  would  have  them,  the  mercy 
needs  no  seeking,  and  their  wide  home  no  hallowing.  Surely 
goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  them,  all  the  days  of  their 
life  ;  and  they  shall  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord — for  ever 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


257 


LECTURE  IV. 

THE  KELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 

97.  Our  subject  of  enquiry  to-day,  you  will  remember,  is 
the  mode  in  which  fine  art  is  founded  upon,  or  may  contribute 
to,  the  practical  requirements  of  human  life. 

Its  offices  in  this  respect  are  mainly  twofold  ;  it  gives  Form 
to  knowledge,  and  Grace  to  utility  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  makes 
permanently  visible  to  us  things  which  otherwise  could  neither 
be  described  by  our  science,  nor  retained  by  our  memory  ; 
and  it  gives  delightfulness  and  worth  to  the  implements  of 
daily  use,  and  materials  of  dress,  furniture,  and  lodging.  In 
the  first  of  these  offices  it  gives  precision  and  charm  to  truth ; 
in  the  second  it  gives  precision  and  charm  to  service.  For, 
the  moment  we  make  anything  useful  thoroughly,  it  is  a  law 
of  nature  that  we  shall  be  pleased  with  ourselves,  and  with 
the  thing  we  have  made  ;  and  become  desirous  therefore  to 
adorn  or  complete  it,  in  some  dainty  way,  with  finer  art  ex- 
pressive of  our  pleasure. 

And  the  point  I  wish  chiefly  to  bring  before  you  to-day  is 
this  close  and  healthy  connection  of  the  fine  arts  with  material 
use  ;  but  I  must  first  try  briefly  to  put  in  clear  light  the 
function  of  art  in  giving  Form  to  truth. 

98.  Much  that  I  have  hitherto  tried  to  teach  has  been  dis- 
puted on  the  ground  that  I  have  attached  too  much  impor- 
tance to  art  as  representing  natural  facts,  and  too  little  to  it 
as  a  source  of  pleasure.  And  I  wish,  in  the  close  of  these 
four  prefatory  lectures,  strongly  to  assert  to  you,  and,  so  far 
as  I  can  in  the  time,  convince  you,  that  the  entire  vitality  of 
art  depends  upon  its  being  either  full  of  truth,  or  full  of  use  ; 
and  that,  however  pleasant,  wonderful,  or  impressive  it  may 
be  in  itself,  it  must  yet  be  of  inferior  kind,  and  tend  to  deeper 
inferiority,  unless  it  has  clearly  one  of  these  main  objects, — 
either  to  state  a  true  thing,  or  to  adorn  a  serviceable  one.  It 
must  never  exist  alone, — never  for  itself  ;  it  exists  rightly  only 


258 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


when  it  is  the  means  of  knowledge,  or  the  grace  of  agency  foi 
life. 

99.  Now,  I  pray  you  to  observe — for  though  I  have  said 
this  often  before,  I  have  never  yet  said  it  clearly  enough — 
every  good  piece  of  art,  to  whichever  of  these  ends  it  may  be 
directed,  involves  first  essentially  the  evidence  of  human  skill, 
and  the  formation  of  an  actually  beautiful  thing  by  it. 

Skill,  and  beauty,  always  then  ;  and,  beyond  these,  the  for- 
mative arts  have  always  one  or  other  of  the  two  objects  which 
I  have  just  defined  to  you — truth,  or  serviceableness  ;  and 
without  these  aims  neither  the  skill  nor  their  beauty  will 
avail  ;  only  by  these  can  either  legitimately  reign.  All  the 
graphic  arts  begin  in  keeping  the  outline  of  shadow  that  we 
have  loved,  and  they  end  in  giving  to  it  the  aspect  of  life  ; 
and  all  the  architectural  arts  begin  in  the  shaping  of  the  cup 
and  the  platter,  and  they  end  in  a  glorified  roof. 

Therefore,  you  see,  in  the  graphic  arts  you  have  Skill, 
Beauty,  and  Likeness;  and  in  the  architectural  arts  Skill, 
Beauty,  and  Use  ;  and  you  must  have  the  three  in  each  group, 
balanced  and  co-ordinate  ;  and  all  the  chief  errors  of  art  con- 
sist in  losing  or  exaggerating  one  of  these  elements. 

100.  For  instance,  almost  the  whole  system  and  hope  of 
modern  life  are  founded  on  the  notion  that  you  may  substi- 
tute mechanism  for  skill,  photograph  for  picture,  cast-iron  for 
sculpture.  That  is  your  main  nineteenth-century  faith,  or 
infidelity.  You  think  you  can  get  everything  by  grinding — 
music,  literature,  and  painting.  You  will  find  it  grievously 
not  so  ;  you  can  get  nothing  but  dust  by  mere  grinding. 
Even  to  have  the  barley-meal  out  of  it,  you  must  have  the 
barley  first ;  and  that  comes  by  growth,  not  grinding.  But 
essentially,  we  have  lost  our  delight  in  Skill  ;  in  that  majesty 
of  it  which  I  was  trying  to  make  clear  to  you  in  my  last  ad- 
dress, and  which  long  ago  I  tried  to  express,  under  the  head 
of  ideas  of  power.  The  entire  sense  of  that,  we  have  lost,  be- 
cause we  ourselves  do  not  take  pains  enough  to  do  right,  and 
have  no  conception  of  what  the  right  costs  ;  so  that  all  the 
joy  and  reverence  we  ought  to  feel  in  looking  at  a  strong 
man's  work  have  ceased  in  us.    We  keep  them  yet  a  little  in 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


259 


looking  at  a  honeycomb  or  a  bird's-nest ;  we  understand  that 
these  differ,  by  divinity  of  skill,  from  a  lump  of  wax  or  a  clus- 
ter of  sticks.  Bat  a  picture,  which  is  a  much  more  wonder- 
ful thing  than  a  honeycomb  or  a  bird's-nest, — have  we  not 
known  people,  and  sensible  people  too,  who  expected  to  be 
taught  to  produce  that,  in  six  lessons  ? 

101.  Well,  you  must  have  the  skill,  you  must  have  the 
beauty,  which  is  the  highest  moral  element ;  and  then,  lastly, 
you  must  have  the  verity  or  utility,  which  is  not  the  moral, 
but  the  vital  element  ;  and  this  desire  for  verity  and  use  is 
the  one  aim  of  the  three  that  always  leads  in  great  schools, 
and  in  the  minds  of  great  masters,  without  any  exception. 
They  will  permit  themselves  in  awkwardness,  they  will  permit 
themselves  in  ugliness ; — but  they  will  never  permit  them- 
selves in  uselessness  or  in  unveracity. 

102.  And  farther,  as  their  skill  increases,  and  as  their 
grace,  so  much  more,  their  desire  for  truth.  It  is  impossible 
to  find  the  three  motives  in  fairer  balance  and  harmony  than 
in  our  own  Reynolds.  He  rejoices  in  showing  you  his  skill ; 
and  those  of  you  who  succeed  in  learning  what  painters'  work 
really  is  wTill  one  day  rejoice  also,  even  to  laughter — that 
highest  laughter  which  springs  of  pure  delight,  in  watching 
the  fortitude  and  the  fire  of  a  hand  which  strikes  forth  its  will 
upon  the  canvas  as  easily  as  the  wind  strikes  it  on  the  sea. 
He  rejoices  in  all  abstract  beauty  and  rhythm  and  melody  of 
design  ;  he  will  never  give  you  a  colour  that  is  not  lovely,  nor 
a  shade  that  is  unnecessary,  nor  a  line  that  is  ungraceful. 
But  all  his  power  and  all  his  invention  are  held  by  him  subor- 
dinate,— and  the  more  obediently  because  of  their  nobleness, 
— to  his  true  leading  purpose  of  setting  before  you  such  like- 
ness of  the  living  presence  of  an  English  gentleman  or  an 
English  lady,  as  shall  be  worthy  of  being  looked  upon  for 
ever. 

103.  But  farther,  you  remember,  I  hope — for  I  said  it  in  a 
way  that  I  thought  would  shock  you  a  little,  that  you  might 
remember  it — my  statement,  that  art  had  never  done  more 
than  this,  never  more  than  given  the  likeness  of  a  noble 
human  being.    Not  only  so,  but  it  very  seldom  does  so  much 


2G0 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


as  this ;  and  the  best  pictures  that  exist  of  the  great  schools 
are  all  portraits,  or  groups  of  portraits,  often  of  very  simple 
and  nowise  noble  persons.  You  may  have  much  more  brill- 
iant and  impressive  qualities  in  imaginative  pictures ;  you 
may  have  figures  scattered  like  clouds,  or  garlanded  like 
flowers  ;  you  may  have  light  and  shade,  as  of  a  tempest,  and 
colour,  as  of  the  rainbow  ;  but  all  that  is  child's  play  to  the 
great  men,  though  it  is  astonishment  to  us.  Their  real 
strength  is  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  as  far  as  I  know  it  is 
never  elsewhere  brought  out  so  thoroughly,  as  in  painting 
one  man  or  woman,  and  the  soul  that  was  in  them  ;  nor  that 
always  the  highest  soul,  but  often  only  a  thwarted  one  that 
was  capable  of  height ;  or  perhaps  not  even  that,  but  faultful 
and  poor,  yet  seen  through,  to  the  poor  best  of  it,  by  the 
masterful  sight.  So  that  in  order  to  put  before  you  in  your 
Standard  series  the  best  art  possible,  I  am  obliged,  even  from 
the  very  strongest  men,  to  take  the  portraits,  before  I  take 
the  idealism.  Nay,  whatever  is  best  in  the  great  composi- 
tions themselves  has  depended  on  portraiture  ;  and  the  study 
necessary  to  enable  you  to  understand  invention  will  also 
convince  you  that  the  mind  of  man  never  invented  a  greater 
thing  than  the  form  of  man,  animated  by  faithful  life.  Every 
attempt  to  refine  or  exalt  such  healthy  humanity  has  weak- 
ened or  caricatured  it ;  or  else  consists  only  in  giving  it,  to 
please  our  fancy,  the  wings  of  birds,  or  the  eyes  of  antelopes. 
Whatever  is  truly  great  in  either  Greek  or  Christian  art,  is 
also  restrictedly  human ;  and  even  the  raptures  of  the  re- 
deemed souls  who  enter,  '  celestemente  ballando,'  the  gate  of 
Angelico's  Paradise,  were  seen  first  in  the  terrestrial,  yet  most 
pure,  mirth  of  Florentine  maidens. 

104.  I  am  aware  that  this  cannot  but  at  present  appear 
gravely  questionable  to  those  of  my  audience  who  are  strictly 
cognizant  of  the  phases  of  Greek  art ;  for  they  know  that  the 
moment  of  its  decline  is  accurately  marked,  by  its  turning 
from  abstract  form  to  portraiture.  But  the  reason  of  this  is 
simple.  The  progressive  course  of  Greek  art  was  in  subduing 
monstrous  conceptions  to  natural  ones  ;  it  did  this  by  general 
Laws  ;  it  reached  absolute  truth  of  generic  human  form,  and 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


261 


if  its  ethical  force  had  remained,  would  have  advanced  into 
healthy  portraiture.  But  at  the  moment  of  change  the  na- 
tional life  ended  in  Greece  ;  and  portraiture,  there,  meant 
insult  to  her  religion,  and  flattery  to  her  tyrants.  And  her 
skill  perished,  not  because  she  became  true  in  sight,  but  be- 
cause she  became  vile  in  heart. 

105.  And  now  let  us  think  of  our  own  work,  and  ask  how 
that  may  become,  in  its  own  poor  measure,  active  in  some 
verity  of  representation.  We  certainly  cannot  begin  by 
drawing  kings  or  queens  ;  but  we  must  try,  even  in  our 
earliest  work,  if  it  is  to  prosper,  to  draw  something  that  will 
convey  true  knowledge  both  to  ourselves  and  others.  And  I 
think  you  will  find  greatest  advantage  in  the  endeavour  to  give 
more  life  and  educational  power  to  the  simpler  branches 
of  natural  science  :  for  the  great  scientific  men  are  all  so 
eager  in  advance  that  they  have  no  time  to  popularise  their 
discoveries,  and  if  we  can  glean  after  them  a  little,  and  make 
pictures  of  the  things  which  science  describes,  we  shall  find 
the  service  a  worthy  one.  Not  only  so,  but  we  may  even  be 
helpful  to  science  herself  ;  for  she  has  suffered  by  her  proud 
severance  from  the  arts  ;  and  having  made  too  little  effort  to 
realise  her  discoveries  to  vulgar  eyes,  has  herself  lost  true 
measure  of  what  was  chiefly  precious  in  them. 

106.  Take  Botany,  for  instance.  Our  scientific  botanists 
are,  I  think,  chiefly  at  present  occupied  in  distinguishing 
species,  which  perfect  methods  of  distinction  will  ]:>robably  in 
the  future  show  to  be  indistinct ; — in  inventing  descriptive 
names  of  which  a  more  advanced  science  and  more  fastidious 
scholarship  will  show  some  to  be  unnecessary,  and  others  inad- 
missible ; — and  in  microscopic  investigations  of  structure,  which 
through  many  alternate  links  of  triumphant  discovery  that 
tissues  are  composed  of  vessels,  and  that  vessels  are  composed 
of  tissue,  have  not  hitherto  completely  explained  to  us  either 
the  origin,  the  energy,  or  the  course  of  the  sap  ;  and  which, 
however  subtle  or  successful,  bear  to  the  real  natural  history  of 
plants  only  the  relation  that  anatomy  and  organic  chemistry 
bear  to  the  history  of  men.  In  the  meantime,  our  artists  are  so 
generally  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  Darwinian  theory,  that 


262 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


they  do  not  always  think  it  necessary  to  show  any  difference  be- 
tween the  foliage  of  an  elm  and  an  oak  ;  and  the  gift-books  of 
Christmas  have  every  page  surrounded  with  laboriously  en- 
graved garlands  of  rose,  shamrock,  thistle,  and  forget-me-not, 
without  its  being  thought  proper  by  the  draughtsmen,  or 
desirable  by  the  public,  even  in  the  case  of  those  uncommon 
flowers,  to  observe  the  real  shape  of  the  petals  of  any  one  of 
them. 

107.  Now  wThat  we  especially  need  at  present  for  educa- 
tional purposes  is  to  know,  not  the  anatomy  of  plants,  but 
their  biography — how  and  where  they  live  and  die,  their  tem- 
pers, benevolences,  malignities,  distresses,  and  virtues.  "We 
want  them  drawn  from  their  youth  to  their  age,  from  bud  to 
fruit.  We  ought  to  see  the  various  forms  of  their  diminished 
but  hardy  growth  in  cold  climates,  or  poor  soils  ;  and  their 
rank  or  wild  luxuriance,  when  full-fed,  and  warmly  nursed. 
And  all  this  we  ought  to  have  drawn  so  accurately,  that  we 
might  at  once  compare  any  given  part  of  a  plant  with  the 
same  part  of  any  other,  drawn  on  the  like  conditions.  Now, 
is  not  this  a  work  which  w^e  may  set  about  here  in  Oxford, 
with  good  hope  and  much  pleasure  ?  I  think  it  so  important, 
that  the  first  exercise  in  drawing  I  shall  put  before  you  will 
be  an  outline  of  a  laurel  leaf.  You  will  find  in  the  opening 
sentence  of  Lionardo's  treatise,  our  present  text-book,  that 
you  must  not  at  first  draw  from  nature,  but  from  a  good 
master's  work,  '  per  assuefarsi  a  buone  membra,'  to  accustom 
yourselves,  that  is,  to  entirely  good  representative  organic 
forms.  So  your  first  exercise  shall  be  the  top  of  the  laurel 
sceptre  of  Apollo,  drawn  by  an  Italian  engraver  of  Lionardo's 
own  time  ;  then  we  will  draw  a  laurel  leaf  itself  ;  and  little 
by  little,  I  think  we  may  both  learn  ourselves,  and  teach  to 
many  besides,  somewhat  more  than  we  know  yet,  of  the  wild 
olives  of  Greece,  and  the  wild  roses  of  England. 

108.  Next,  in  Geology,  which  I  will  take  leave  to  consider 
as  an  entirely  separate  science  from  the  zoology  of  the  past, 
which  has  lately  usurped  its  name  and  interest.  In  geology 
itself  we  find  the  strength  of  many  able  men  occupied  in  de- 
bating questions  of  which  there  are  yet  no  data  even  for  the 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


dear  Biatfcjpent ;  and  in  seizing  advanced  theoretical  positions 
on  the  mere  contingency  of  their  being  afterwards  tenable  ; 
while,  in  the  meantime,  no  simple  person,  taking  a  holiday  in 
Cumberland,  can  get  an  intelligible  section  of  Skiddaw,  or  a 
-clear  account  of  the  origin  of  the  Skid  daw  slates  ;  and  while, 
though  half  the  educated  society  of  London  travel  every  sum- 
mer over  the  great  plain  of  Switzerland,  none  know,  or  care  to 
know,  why  that  is  a  plain  and  the  Alps  to  the  south  of  it  are 
Alps  ;  and  whether  or  not  the  gravel  of  the  one  has  anything 
to  do  with  the  rocks  of  the  other.  And  though  every  palace 
in  Europe  owes  part  of  its  decoration  to  variegated  marbles, 
und  nearly  every  woman  in  Europe  part  of  her  decoration  to 
pieces  of  jasper  or  chalcedony,  I  do  not  think  any  geologist 
could  at  this  moment  with  authority  tell  us  either  how  a 
piece  of  marble  is  stained,  or  what  causes  the  streaks  in  a 
Scotch  pebble. 

109.  Now,  as  soon  as  you  have  obtained  the  power  of  draw- 
ing, I  do  not  say  a  mountain,  but  even  a  stone,  accurately, 
every  question  of  this  kind  will  become  to  you  at  once  attrac- 
tive and  definite  ;  you  will  find  that  in  the  grain,  the  lustre, 
and  the  cleavage-lines  of  the  smallest  fragment  of  rock,  there 
are  recorded  forces  of  every  order  and  magnitude,  from  those 
which  raise  a  continent  by  one  volcanic  effort,  to  those  which 
at  every  instant  are  polishing  the  apparently  complete  crystal 
in  its  nest,  and  conducting  the  apparently  motionless  metal 
in  its  vein  ;  and  that  only  by  the  art  of  your  own  hand,  and 
fidelity  of  sight  which  it  developes,  you  can  obtain  true  per- 
ception of  these  invincible  and  inimitable  arts  of  the  earth 
herself :  while  the  comparatively  slight  effort  necessary  to  ob- 
tain so  much  skill  as  may  serviceably  draw  mountains  in  dis- 
tant effect  will  be  instantly  rewarded  by  what  is  almost  equiv- 
alent to  a  new  sense  of  the  conditions  of  their  structure. 

110.  And,  because  it  is  well  at  once  to  know  some  direction 
in  which  our  work  may  be  definite,  let  me  suggest  to  those  of 
you  who  may  intend  passing  their  vacation  in  Switzerland, 
and  who  care  about  mountains,  that  if  they  will  first  qualify 
themselves  to  take  angles  of  position  and  elevation  with  cor- 
rectness, and  to  draw  outlines  with  approximate  fidelity,  there 


264 


Lectures  on  art. 


are  a  series  of  problems  of  the  highest  interest  to  be  worked 
out  on  the  southern  edge  of  the  Swiss  plain,  in  the  study  of 
the  relations  of  its  molasse  beds  to  the  rocks  which  are  char- 
acteristically developed  in  the  chain  of  the  Stockhorn,  Beaten- 
berg,  Pilate,  Mythen  above  Schwytz,  and  High  Sentis  of  Ap- 
penzell ;  the  pursuit  of  which  may  lead  them  into  many 
pleasant,  as  well  as  creditably  dangerous,  walks,  and  curious 
discoveries  ;  and  will  be  good  for  the  discipline  of  their  fingers 
in  the  pencilling  of  crag  form. 

111.  I  wish  I  could  ask  you  to  draw,  instead  of  the  Alps, 
the  crests  of  Parnassus  and  Olympus,  and  the  ravines  of  Del- 
phi and  of  Tempe.  I  have  not  loved  the  arts  of  Greece  as 
others  have ;  yet  I  love  them,  and  her,  so  much,  that  ib  is  to 
me  simply  a  standing  marvel  how  scholars  can  endure  for  all 
these  centuries,  during  which  their  chief  education  has  been 
in  the  language  and  policy  of  Greece,  to  have  only  the  names 
of  her  hills  and  rivers  upon  their  lips,  and  never  one  line  of 
conception  of  them  in  their  mind's  sight.  Which  of  us  knows 
what  the  valley  of  Sparta  is  like,  or  the  great  mountain  vase 
of  Arcadia  ?  which  of  us,  except  in  mere  airy  syllabling  of 
names,  knows  aught  of  '  sandy  Ladon's  lilied  banks,  or  old 
Lycseus,  or  Cyllene  hoar  ?  ■  *  You  cannot  travel  in  Greece  ? ' — 
I  know  it  ;  nor  in  Magna  Grsecia.  But,  gentlemen  of  England, 
you  had  better  find  out  why  you  cannot,  and  put  an  end  to 
that  horror  of  European  shame,  before  you  hope  to  learn 
Greek  art. 

112.  I  scarcely  know  whether  to  place  among  the  things 
useful  to  art,  or  to  science,  the  systematic  record,  by  drawing, 
of  phenomena  of  the  sky.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that  your  work 
cannot  in  any  direction  be  more  useful  to  yourselves,  than  in 
enabling  you  to  perceive  the  quite  unparalleled  subtilties  of 
colour  and  inorganic  form,  which  occur  on  any  ordinarily  fine 
morning  or  evening  horizon ;  and  I  will  even  confess  to  you 
another  of  my  perhaps  too  sanguine  expectations,  that  in  some 
far  distant  time  it  may  come  to  pass,  that  young  Englishmen 
and  Englishwomen  may  think  the  breath  of  the  morning  sky 
pleasanter  than  that  of  midnight,  and  its  light  prettier  than 
that  of  candles. 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USm 


265 


113.  Lastly,  in  Zoology.  What  the  Greeks  did  for  the 
horse,  and  what,  as  far  as  regards  domestic  and  expressional 
character,  Landseer  has  done  for  the  dog  and  the  deer,  re- 
mains to  be  done  by  art  for  nearly  all  other  animals  of  high 
organisation.  There  are  few  birds  or  beasts  that  have  not  a 
range  of  character  which,  if  not  equal  to  that  of  the  horse  or 
dog,  is  yet  as  interesting  within  narrower  limits,  and  often  in 
grotesqueness,  intensity,  or  wild  and  timid  pathos,  more  sin- 
gular and  mysterious.  Whatever  love  of  humour  you  have, — 
whatever  sympathy  with  imperfect,  but  most  subtle,  feeling,— 
whatever  perception  of  sublimity  in  conditions  of  fatal  power, 
may  here  find  fullest  occupation  :  all  these  being  joined,  in 
the  strong  animal  races,  to  a  variable  and  fantastic  beauty  far 
beyond  anything  that  merely  formative  art  has  yet  conceived. 
I  have  placed  in  your  Educational  series  a  wing  by  Albert 
Diirer,  which  goes  as  far  as  art  yet  has  reached  in  delineation 
of  plumage  ;  while  for  the  simple  action  of  the  pinion,  it  is 
impossible  to  go  beyond  what  has  been  done  already  by  Titian 
and  Tin  tore  t ;  but  you  cannot  so  much  as  once  look  at  the 
minings  of  the  plumes  of  a  pelican  pluming  itself  after  it  has 
been  in  the  water,  or  carefully  draw  the  contours  of  the  wing 
either  of  a  vulture  or  a  common  swift,  or  paint  the  rose  and 
vermilion  of  that  of  a  flamingo,  without  receiving  almost  a 
new  conception  of  the  meaning  of  form  and  colour  in  creation. 

114.  Lastly.  Your  work,  in  all  directions  I  have  hitherto 
indicated,  may  be  as  deliberate  as  you  choose  ;  there  is  no 
immediate  fear  of  the  extinction  of  many  species  of  flowers  or 
animals  ;  and  the  Alps,  and  valley  of  Sparta,  will  wait  your 
leisure,  I  fear  too  long.  But  the  feudal  and  monastic  build- 
ings of  Europe,  and  still  more  the  streets  of  her  ancient  cities, 
are  vanishing  like  dreams  :  and  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  the 
mingled  envy  and  contempt  with  which  future  generations  will 
look  back  to  us,  who  still  possessed  such  things,  yet  made  no 
effort  to  preserve,  and  scarcely  any  to  delineate  them  :  for, 
when  used  as  material  of  landscape  by  the  modern  artist,  they 
are  nearly  always  superficially  or  flatteringly  represented, 
without  zeal  enough  to  penetrate  their  character,  or  patience 
enough  to  render  it  in  modest  harmony.    As  for  places  of 


2GG 


LECTURES  ON  ART, 


traditional  interest,  I  do  not  know  an  entirely  faithful  draw 
ing  of  any  historical  site,  except  one  or  two  studies  made  bj 
enthusiastic  young  painters  in  Palestine  and  Egypt :  for  which, 
thanks  to  them  always  ;  hut  we  want  work  nearer  home. 

115.  Now  it  is  quite  probable  that  some  of  you,  who  will 
not  care  to  go  through  the  labour  necessary  to  draw  flowers 
or  animals,  may  yet  have  pleasure  in  attaining  some  moder- 
ately accurate  skill  of  sketching  architecture,  and  greater 
pleasure  still  in  directing  it  usefully.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
we  were  to  take  up  the  historical  scenery  in  Carlyle's  '  Fred- 
erick.' Too  justly  the  historian  accuses  the  genius  of  past  art, 
in  that,  types  of  too  many  such  elsewhere,  the  galleries  of 
Berlin — are  made  up,  like  other  galleries,  of  goat-footed  Pan, 
Europa's  Bull,  Romulus' s  She-Wolf,  and  the  Correggiosity  of 
Correggio,  and  contain,  for  instance,  no  portrait  of  Friedrich 
the  Great, — no  likeness  at  all,  or  next  to  none  at  all,  of  the 
noble  series  of  Human  Realities,  or  of  any  part  of  them,  who 
have  sprung,  not  from  the  idle  brains  of  dreaming  dilettanti, 
but  from  the  head  of  God  Almighty,  to  make  this  poor  au- 
thentic earth  a  little  memorable  for  us,  and  to  do  a  little  work 
that  may  be  eternal  there.'  So  Carlyle  tells  us — too  truly !  We 
cannot  now  draw  Fried  rich  for  him,  but  we  can  draw  some  of 
the  old  castles  and  cities  that  were  the  cradles  of  German  life — 
Hohenzollern,  Hapsburg,  Marburg,  and  such  others  ; — we  may 
keep  some  authentic  likeness  of  these  for  the  future.  Suppose 
we  were  to  take  up  that  first  volume  of  'Friedrich,'  and  put 
outlines  to  it  ?  shall  we  begin  by  looking  for  Henry  the  Fow- 
ler s  tomb— Carlyle  himself  asks  if  he  has  any — at  Quedlin- 
burg,  and  so  downwards,  rescuing  what  we  can  ?  That  would 
certainly  be  making  our  work  of  some  true  use. 

116.  But  I  have  told  you  enough,  it  seems  to  me,  at  least 
to-day,  of  this  function  of  art  in  recording  fact ;  let  me  now 
finally,  and  with  all  distinctness  possible  to  me,  state  to  you 
its  main  business  of  all ; — its  service  in  the  actual  uses  of  daily 
life. 

You  are  surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear  me  call  this  its  main 
business.  That  is  indeed  so,  however.  The  giving  brightness 
to  picture  is  much,  but  the  giving  brightness  to  life  more, 


TEE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


267 


And  remember,  were  it  as  patterns  only,  you  cannot,  without 
the  realties,  have  the  pictures.  You  cannot  have  a  landscape 
by  Turner,  without  a  country  for  him  to  paint ;  you  cannot 
have  a  portrait  by  Titian,  without  a  man  to  be  pourtrayed. 
I  need  not  prove  that  to  you,  I  suppose,  in  these  short  terms; 
but  in  the  outcome  I  can  get  no  soul  to  believe  that  the  be- 
ginning of  art  is  in  getting  our  country  clean  and  our  people 
beautiful.  I  have  been  ten  years  trying  to  get  this  very  plain 
certainty — I  do  not  say  believed — but  even  thought  of,  as  any- 
thing but  a  monstrous  proposition.  To  get  your  country 
clean,  and  your  people  lovely  ; — I  assure  you,  that  is  a  neces- 
sary work  of  art  to  begin  with  !  There  has  indeed  been  art 
in  countries  where  people  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  God,  but 
never  in  countries  where  they  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  the  devil. 
There  has  indeed  been  art  w^here  the  people  were  not  all 
lovely, — where  even  their  lips  were  thick— and  their  skins 
black,  because  the  sun  had  looked  upon  them ;  but  never  in 
a  country  where  the  people  were  palo  with  miserable  toil  and 
deadly  shade,  and  where  the  lips  of  youth,  instead  of  being 
full  with  blood,  were  pinched  by  famine,  or  warped  with  poi- 
son. And  now,  therefore,  note  this  well,  the  gist  of  ail  these 
long  prefatory  talks.  I  said  that  the  two  great  moral  instincts 
were  those  of  Order  and  Kindness.  Now,  all  the  arts  are 
founded  on  agriculture  by  the  hand,  and  on  the  graces,  and 
kindness  of  feeding  and  dressing,  and  lodging  your  people. 
Greek  art  begins  in  the  gardens  of  Alcinous — perfect  order, 
leeks  in  beds,  and  fountains  in  pipes.  And  Christian  art,  as  it 
arose  out  of  chivalry,  wTas  only  possible  so  far  as  chivalry  com- 
pelled both  kings  and  knights  to  care  for  the  right  personal 
training  of  their  people  ;  it  perished  utterly  when  those  kings 
and  knights  became  Srjixo/36po^  devourers  of  the  people.  And 
it  will  become  possible  again  only,  when,  literally,  the  sword 
is  beaten  into  the  ploughshare,  when  your  St.  George  of  Eng- 
land shall  justify  his  name,  and  Christian  art  shall  be  known, 
as  its  Master  was,  in  breaking  of  bread. 

117.  Now  look  at  the  working  out  of  this  broad  principle 
in  minor  detail ;  observe  how,  from  highest  to  lowest,  health 
of  art  has  first  depended  on  reference  to  industrial  use.  There 


268 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


is  first  the  need  of  cup  and  platter,  especially  of  cup  ;  for  yot? 
can  put  your  meat  on  the  Harpies',  or  any  other,  tables  ;  but 
you  must  have  your  cup  to  drink  from.  And  to  hold  it  con- 
veniently, yon  must  put  a  handle  to  it ;  and  to  fill  it  when  it 
is  empty  you  must  have  a  large  pitcher  of  some  sort  ;  and  to 
carry  the  pitcher  you  may  most  advisably  have  two  handles. 
Modify  the  forms  of  these  needful  possessions  according  to  the 
various  requirements  of  drinking  largely  and  drinking  deli- 
cately ;  of  pouring  easily  out,  or  of  keeping  for  years  the  per- 
fume in  ;  of  storing  in  cellars,  or  bearing  from  fountains  ;  of 
sacrificial  libation,  of  Pan,  athenaic  treasure  of  oil,  and  sepul- 
chral treasure  of  ashes — and  you  have  a  resultant  series  of 
beautiful  form  and  decoration,  from  the  rude  amphora  of  red 
earth  up  to  Cellini's  vases  of  gems  and  crystal,  in  which 
series,  but  especially  in  the  more  simple  conditions  of  it, 
are  developed  the  most  beautiful  lines  and  most  perfect 
types  of  severe  composition  which  have  yet  been  attained  by 
art. 

118.  But  again,  that  you  may  fill  your  cup  with  pure  water, 
you  must  go  to  the  well  or  spring ;  you  need  a  fence  round 
the  well  ;  you  need  some  tube  or  trough,  or  other  means  of 
confining  the  stream  at  the  spring.  For  the  conveyance  of 
the  current  to  any  distance  you  must  build  either  enclosed  or 
open  aqueduct ;  and  in  the  hot  square  of  the  city  where  you 
set  it  free,  you  find  it  good  for  health  and  pleasantness  to  let 
it  leap  into  a  fountain.  On  these  several  needs  you  have  a 
school  of  sculpture  founded  ;  in  the  decoration  of  the  walls  of 
wells  in  level  countries,  and  of  the  sources  of  springs  in  moun- 
tainous ones,  and  chiefly  of  all,  where  the  women  of  house- 
hold or  market  meet  at  the  city  fountain.  There  is,  however, 
a  farther  reason  for  the  use  of  art  here  than  in  any  other 
material  service,  so  far  as  wTe  may,  by  art,  express  our  rever- 
ence or  thankfulness.  Whenever  a  nation  is  in  its  right 
mind,  it  always  has  a  deep  sense  of  divinity  in  the  gift  of  rain 
from  heaven,  filling  its  heart  with  food  and  gladness  ;  and  all 
the  more  when  that  gift  becomes  gentle  and  perennial  in  the 
flowing  of  springs.  It  literally  is  not  possible  that  any  fruit- 
ful power  of  the  Muses  should  be  put  forth  upon  a  people 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


269 


which  disdains  their  Helicon  ;  still  less  is  it  possible  that  any 
Christian  nation  should  grow  up  '  tanquam  lignum  quod  plan- 
tatum  est  secus  decursus  aquarum,'  which  cannot  recognise 
the  lesson  meant  in  their  being  told  of  the  places  where 
Rebekah  was  met ; — where  Rachel, — where  Zipporah, — and 
she  who  was  asked  for  water  under  Mount  Gerizim  by  a 
Stranger,  weary,  who  had  nothing  to  draw  with. 

119.  And  truly,  when  our  mountain  springs  are  set  apart  in 
vale  or  craggy  glen,  or  glade  of  wood  green  through  the 
drought  of  summer,  far  from  cities,  then  it  is  best  let  them 
stay  in  their  own  happy  peace  ;  but  if  near  towns,  and  liable 
therefore  to  be  defiled  by  common  usage,  we  could  not  use 
the  loveliest  art  more  worthily  than  by  sheltering  the  spring 
and  its  first  pools  with  precious  marbles  :  nor  ought  anything 
to  be  esteemed  more  important,  as  a  means  of  healthy  educa- 
tion, than  the  care  to  keep  the  streams  of  it  afterwards,  to  as 
great  a  distance  as  possible,  pure,  full  of  fish,  and  easily  ac- 
cessible to  children.  There  used  to  be,  thirty  years  ago,  a 
little  rivulet  of  the  Wandel,  about  an  inch  deep,  which  ran 
over  the  carriage-road  and  under  a  foot-bridge  just  under  the 
last  chalk  hill  near  Croydon.  Alas  !  men  came  and  went ; 
and  it — did  not  go  on  for  ever,  It  has  long  since  been  bricked 
over  by  the  parish  authorities  ;  but  there  was  more  education 
in  that  stream  with,  its  minnows  than  you  could  get  out  of  a 
hundred  pounds  silent  yearly  in  the  parish  schools,  even 
though  you  were  to  spend  every  farthing  of  it  in  teaching  the 
nature  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  and  the  names,  and  rate  per 
minute,  of  all  the  rivers  in  Asia  and  America. 

120.  Well,  the  gist  of  this  matter  lies  here  then.  Suppose 
wo  want  a  school  of  pottery  again  in  England,  all  we  poor 
artists  are  ready  to  do  the  best  we.  can,  to  show  you  how 
pretty  a  line  may  be  that  is  twisted  first  to  one  side,  and  then 
to  the  other ;  and  how  a  plain  household-blue  will  make  a 
pattern  on  white  ;  and  how  ideal  art  may  be  got  out  of  the 
spaniel's  colours,  of  black  and  tan.  But  I  tell  you  beforehand, 
all  that  we  can  do  will  be  utterly  useless,  unless  you  teach 

our  peasant  to  say  grace,  not  only  before  meat,  but  before 
rink  ;  and  having  provided  him  with  Greek  cups  and  plat' 


270 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


ters,  provide  him  also  with  something  that  is  not  poisoned  to 
put  into  them. 

121.  There  cannot  be  any  need  that  I  should  trace  for  you 
the  conditions  of  art  that  are  directly  founded  on  serviceable- 
ness  of  dress,  and  of  armour  ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  affirm  to 
you,  in  the  most  positive  manner,  that  after  recovering,  for 
the  poor,  wholesomeness  of  food,  your  next  step  towards 
founding  schools  of  art  in  England  must  be  in  recovering,  for 
the  poor,  decency  and  wholesomeness  of  dress;  thoroughly 
good  in  substance,  fitted  for  their  daily  work,  becoming  to 
their  rank  in  life,  and  worn  with  order  and  dignity.  And  this 
order  and  dignity  must  be  taught  them  by  the  women  of  the 
upper  and  middle  classes,  whose  minds  can  be  in  nothing 
right,  as  long  as  they  are  so  wrong  in  this  matter  as  to  endure 
the  squalor  of  the  poor,  while  they  themselves  dress  gaily. 
And  on  the  proper  pride  and  comfort  of  both  poor  and  rich  in 
dress,  must  be  founded  the  true  arts  of  dress  ;  carried  on  by 
masters  of  manufacture  no  less  careful  of  the  perfectness  and 
beauty  of  their  tissues,  and  of  all  that  in  substance  and  in 
design  can  be  bestowed  upon  them,  than  ever  the  armourers 
of  Milan  and  Damascus  were  careful  of  their  steel. 

122.  Then,  in  the  third  place,  having  recovered  some  whole- 
some habits  of  life  as  to  food  and  dress,  we  must  recover 
them  as  to  lodging.  I  said  just  now  that  the  best  architec- 
ture was  but  a  glorified  roof.  Think  of  it.  The  dome  of  the 
Vatican,  the  porches  of  Eheims  or  Chartres,  the  vaults  and 
arches  of  their  aisles,  the  canopy  of  the  tomb,  and  the  spire 
of  the  belfry,  are  all  forms  resulting  from  the  mere  require- 
ment that  a  certain  space  shall  be  strongly  covered  from  heat 
and  rain.  More  than  that — as  I  have  tried  all  through  '  The 
Stones  of  Venice '  to  show — the  lovely  forms  of  these  were 
every  one  of  them  developed  in  civil  and  domestic  building, 
and  only  after  their  invention  employed  ecclesiastically  on  the 
grandest  scale.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  noticed,  but 
I  think  you  cannot  but  have  noticed,  here  in  Oxford,  as  else- 
where, that  our  modern  architects  never  seem  to  know  what 
to  do  with  their  roofs.  Be  assured,  until  the  roofs  are  right, 
nothing  else  will  be  ;  and  there  are  just  two  ways  of  keepin 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


271 


them  right.  Never  build  them  of  iron,  but  only  of  wood  or 
stone  ;  and  secondly,  take  care  that  in  every  town  the  little 
roofs  are  built  before  the  large  ones,  a  ad  that  eveiybody  who 
wants  one  has  got  one.  And  we  must  try  also  to  make  every 
body  want  one.  That  is  to  say,  at  some  not  very  advanced 
period  of  life,  men  should  desire  to  have  a  home,  which  they 
do  not  wish  to  quit  any  more,  suited  to  their  habits  of  life, 
and  likely  to  be  more  and  more  suitable  to  them  until  their 
death.  And  men  must  desire  to  have  these  their  dwelling- 
places  built  as  strongly  as  possible,  and  furnished  and  deco- 
rated daintily,  and  set  in  pleasant  places,  in  bright  light  and 
good  air,  being  able  to  choose  for  themselves  that  at  least  as 
well  as  swallows.  And  when  the  houses  are  grouped  together 
in  cities,  men  must  have  so  much  civic  fellowship  as  to  subject 
their  architecture  to  a  common  law,  and  so  much  civic  pride 
as  to  desire  that  the  whole  gathered  group  of  human  dwel- 
lings should  be  a  lovely  thing,  not  a  frightful  one,  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  Not  many  weeks  ago  an  English  clergyman,  a 
master  of  this  University,  a  man  not  given  to  sentiment,  but 
of  middle  age,  and  great  practical  sense,  told  me,  by  accident, 
and  wiiolly  without  reference  to  the  subject  now  before  us, 
that  he  never  could  enter  London  from  his  country  parsonage 
but  with  closed  eyes,  lest  the  sight  of  the  blocks  of  houses 
which  the  railroad  intersected  in  the  suburbs  should  unfit 
him,  by  the  horror  of  it,  for  his  day's  work. 

123.  Now,  it  is  not  possible — and  I  repeat  to  you,  only  in 
more  deliberate  assertion,  what  I  wrote  just  twenty-two  years 
ago  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  c  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  * 
— it  is  not  possible  to  have  any  right  morality,  happiness,  or 
art  in  any  country  where  the  cities  are  thus  built,  or  thus,  let 
me  rather  say,  clotted  and  coagulated  ;  spots  of  a  dreadful 
mildew  spreading  by  patches  and  blotches  over  the  country 
they  consume.  You  must  have  lovely  cities,  crystallised,  not 
coagulated,  into  form  ;  limited  in  size,  and  not  casting  out 
the  scum  and  scurf  of  them  into  an  encircling  eruption  of 
shame,  but  girded  each  with  its  sacred  pom  cerium,  and  wTith 
garlands  of  gardens  full  of  blossoming  trees,  and  softly  guided 
streams. 


272 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


That  is  impossible,  you  say  !  It  may  be  so.  I  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  its  possibility,  but  only  with  its  indispensability. 
More  than  that  must  be  possible,  however,  before  you  can 
have  a  school  of  art ;  namely,  that  you  find  places  elsewhere 
than  in  England,  or  at  least  in  otherwise  unserviceable  parts 
of  England,  for  the  establishment  of  manufactories  needing 
the  help  of  fire,  that  is  to  say,  of  all  the  rfyvai  fiavavo-iKal  and 
iTTLpprjTOL,  of  which  it  was  long  ago  known  to  be  the  constant 

nature  that  '  do^oAias  /xa/Uara  ^xovcrL  ko1  <£t/Vu)s  koll  iroXews  owe- 

7rt/xc\ercr6at?'  and  to  reduce  such  manufactures  to  their  lowest 
limit,  so  that  nothing  may  ever  be  made  of  iron  that  can  as 
effectually  be  made  of  wood  or  stone  ;  and  nothing  moved  by 
steam  that  can  be  as  effectually  moved  by  natural  forces.  And 
observe,  that  for  all  mechanical  effort  required  in  social  life 
and  in  cities,  water  power  is  infinitely  more  than  enough  ;  for 
anchored  mills  on  the  large  rivers,  and  mills  moved  by  sluices 
from  reservoirs  filled  by  the  tide,  will  give  you  command  of 
any  quantity  of  constant  motive  powTer  you  need. 

Agriculture  by  the  hand,  then,  and  absolute  refusal  or  ban- 
ishment of  unnecessary  igneous  force,  are  the  first  condi- 
tions of  a  school  of  art  in  any  country.  And  until  you  do 
this,  be  it  soon  or  late,  things  will  continue  in  that  triumph- 
ant state  to  which,  for  want  of  finer  art,  your  mechanism  has 
brought  them  ; — that,  though  England  is  deafened  with  spin- 
ning wheels,  her  people  have  not  clothes — though  she  is  black 
with  digging  of  fuel,  they  die  of  cold — and  though  she  has 
sold  her  soul  for  gain,  they  die  of  hunger.  Stay  in  that  tri- 
umph, if  you  choose;  but  be  assured  of  this,  it  is  not  one 
which  the  fine  arts  will  ever  share  with  you. 

124.  Now,  I  have  given  you  my  message,  containing,  as  I 
know,  offence  enough,  and  itself,  it  may  seem  to  many,  un- 
necessary enough.  But  just  in  proportion  to  its  apparent  non- 
necessity, and  to  its  certain  offence,  was  its  real  need,  and  my 
real  duty  to  speak  it.  The  study  of  the  fine  arts  could  not  be 
rightly  associated  with  the  grave  work  of  English  Universi- 
ties, without  due  and  clear  protest  against  the  misdirection 
of  national  energy,  which  for  the  present  renders  all  good 
results  of  such  study  on  a  great  scale,  impossible.    I  can  easily 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE. 


273 


teach  you,  as  any  other  moderately  good  draughtsman  could, 
how  to  hold  your  pencils,  and  how  to  lay  your  colours  ;  but  it 
is  little  use  my  doing  that,  while  the  nation  is  spending  mil- 
lions of  money  in  the  destruction  of  all  that  pencil  or  colour 
have  to  represent,  and  in  the  promotion  of  false  forms  of  art, 
which  are  only  the  costliest  and  the  least  enjoyable  of  follies. 
And  therefore  these  are  the  things  that  I  have  first  and  last 
to  tell  you  in  this  place  : — that  the  fine  arts  are  not  to  be 
learned  by  Locomotion,  but  by  making  the  homes  we  live  in 
lovely,  and  by  staying  in  them  ; — that  the  fine  arts  are  not  to 
be  learned  by  Competition,  but  by  doing  our  quiet  best  in 
our  own  way  ; — that  the  fine  arts  are  not  to  be  learned  by  Ex- 
hibition, but  by  doing  what  is  right,  and  making  what  is  hon- 
est, whether  it  be  exhibited  or  not ; — and,  for  the  sum  of  all, 
that  men  must  paint  and  build  neither  for  pride  nor  for 
money,  but  for  love  ;  for  love  of  their  art,  for  love  of  their 
neighbour,  and  whatever  better  love  may  be  than  these, 
founded  on  these.  I  know  that  I  gave  some  pain,  which  I  was 
most  unwilling  to  give,  in  speaking  of  the  possible  abuses  of 
religious  art  ;  but  there  can  be  no  danger  of  any,  so  long  as 
we  remember  that  God  inhabits  cottages  as  well  as  churches, 
and  ought  to  be  well  lodged  there  also.  Begin  with  wooden 
floors  ;  the  tessellated  ones  will  take  care  of  themselves  ;  begin 
with  thatching  roofs,  and  you  shall  end  by  splendidly  vaulting 
them  ;  begin  by  taking  care  that  no  old  eyes  fail  over  their 
Bibles,  nor  young  ones  over  their  needles,  for  want  of  rush- 
light, and  then  you  may  have  whatever  true  good  is  to  be  got 
out  of  coloured  glass  or  wax  candles.  And  in  thus  putting 
the  arts  to  universal  use,  you  will  find  also  their  universal  in- 
spiration, their  universal  benediction.  I  told  you  there  was 
no  evidence  of  especial  Divineness  in  any  application  of  them  ; 
that  they  were  always  equally  human  and  equally  Divine  ;  and 
in  closing  these  inaugural  series  of  lectures,  into  which  I  have 
endeavoured  to  compress  the  principles  that  are  to  be  the 
foundations  of  your  future  work,  it  is  my  last  duty  to  say  some 
positive  words  as  to  the  Divinity  of  all  art,  when  it  is  truly 
fair,  or  truly  serviceable. 

125.  Every  seventh  day,  if  not  oftener,  the  greater  number 


274 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


of  well-meaning  persons  in  England  thankfully  receive  from 
their  teachers  a  benediction,  couched  in  these  terms : — '  The 
Grace  of  our  Lord  Christ,  and  the  Love  of  God,  and  the  Fel- 
lowship of  the  Holy  Ghost,  be  with  you.'  Now  I  do  not  know 
jDrecisely  what  sense  is  attached  in  the  English  public  mind 
to  those  expressions.  Bat  what  I  have  to  tell  you  positively 
is,  that  the  three  things  do  actually  exist,  and  can  be  known 
if  you  care  to  know  them,  and  possessed  if  you  care  to  pos- 
sess them  ;  and  that  another  thing  exists,  besides  these,  of 
which  we  already  know  too  much. 

First,  by  simply  obeying  the  orders  of  the  Founder  of  your 
religion,  all  grace,  graciousness,  or  beauty  and  favour  of  gen- 
tle life,  will  be  given  to  you  in  mind  and  body,  in  work  and 
and  in  rest.  The  Grace  of  Christ  exists,  and  can  be  had  if  you 
will.  Secondly,  as  you  know  more  and  more  of  the  created 
world,  you  will  find  that  the  true  will  of  its  Maker  is  that  its 
creatures  should  be  happy  ; — that  He  has  made  every  thing- 
beautiful  in  its  time  and  its  place,  and  that  it  is  chiefly  by  the 
fault  of  men,  when  they  are  allowed  the  liberty  of  thwarting 
His  laws,  that  Creation  groans  or  travails  in  pain.  The  Love 
of  God  exists,  and  you  may  see  it,  and  live  in  it  if  you  will. 
Lastly,  a  Spirit  does  actually  exist  which  teaches  the  ant  her 
path,  the  bird  her  building,  and  men,  in  an  instinctive  and 
marvellous  way,  whatever  lovely  arts  and  noble  deeds  are 
possible  to  them.  Without  it  you  can  do  no  good  thing.  To 
the  grief  of  it  you  can  do  many  bad  ones.  In  the  possession 
of  it  is  your  peace  and  your  power. 

And  there  is  a  fourth  thing,  of  which  we  already  know  too 
much.  There  is  an  evil  spirit  whose  dominion  is  in  blindness 
and  in  cowardice,  as  the  dominion  of  the  Spirit  of  wisdom  is 
in  clear  sight  and  in  courage. 

And  this  blind  and  cowardly  spirit  is  for  ever  telling  you 
that  evil  things  are  pardonable,  and  you  shall  not  die  for 
them,  and  that  good  things  are  impossible,  and  you  need  not 
live  for  them  ;  and  that  gospel  of  his  is  now  the  loudest  that 
is  preached  in  your  Saxon  tongue.  You  will  find  some  day, 
to  your  cost,  if  you  believe  the  first  part  of  it,  that  it  is  not 
true  ;  but  you  may  never  if  you  believe  the  second  part  of  it 


LINE. 


275 


find,  to  your  gain,  that  also,  untrue  ;  and  therefore  I  pray 
you  with  all  earnestness  to  prove,  and  know  within  your 
hearts,  that  all  things  lovely  and  righteous  are  possible  for 
those  who  believe  in  their  possibility,  and  who  determine 
that,  for  their  part,  they  will  make  every  day's  work  contrib- 
ute to  them.  Let  every  dawn  of  morning  be  to  you  as  the 
beginning  of  life,  and  every  setting  sun  be  to  you  as  its  close : 
— then  let  every  one  of  these  short  lives  leave  its  sure  record 
of  some  kindly  thing  done  for  others — some  goodly  strength 
or  knowledge  gained  for  yourselves  ;  so,  from  day  to  day,  and 
strength  to  strength,  you  shall  build  up  indeed,  by  Art,  by 
Thought,  and  by  Just  Will,  an  Ecclesia  of  England,  of  which 
it  shall  not  be  said,  'See  what  manner  of  stones  are  here,' 
but,  'See  what  manner  of  men/ 


LECTUKE  V. 

LINE. 

126.  You  will,  I  doubt  not,  willingly  permit  me  to  begin 
your  lessons  in  real  practice  of  art  in  words  of  higher  author- 
ity than  mine  (I  ought  rather  to  say,  of  all  authority,  while 
mine  are  of  none), — the  words  of  the  greatest  of  English  paint- 
ers ;  one  also,  than  whom  there  is  indeed  no  greater,  among 
those  of  any  nation,  or  any  time, — our  own  gentle  Reynolds. 

His  says  in  his  first  discourse  :  —  '  The  Directors '  (of  the 
Academy)  '  ought  more  particularly  to  watch  over  the  genius 
of  those  students,  who  being  more  advanced,  are  arrived  at 
that  critical  period  of  study,  on  the  nice  management  of  which 
their  future  turn  of  taste  depends.  At  that  age  it  is  natural 
for  them  to  be  more  captivated  with  what  is  brilliant,  than 
with  what  is  solid,  and  to  prefer  splendid  negligence  to  pain- 
ful and  humiliating  exactness. 

'A  facility  in  composing, — a  lively  and,  what  is  called,  a 
masterly  handling  of  the  chalk  or  pencil,  are,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, captivating  qualities  to  young  minds,  and  become  of 
course  the  objects  of  their  ambition.  They  endeavour  to  imi- 
tate these  dazzling  excellences,  which  they  will  find  no  great 


276 


LEG1UBES  ON  ART. 


labour  in  attaining.  After  much  time  spent  in  these  frivolous 
pursuits,  the  difficulty  will  be  to  retreat ;  but  it  will  then  be 
too  late  ;  and  there  is  scarce  an  instance  of  return  to  scrupu- 
lous labour,  after  the  mind  has  been  debauched  and  deceived 
by  this  fallacious  mastery.' 

127.  I  read  you  these  words,  chiefly  that  Sir  Joshua,  who 
founded,  as  first  President,  the  Academical  schools  of  English 
painting,  in  these  well-known  discourses,  may  also  begin,  as  he 
has  truest  right  to  do,  our  system  of  instruction  in  this  Uni- 
versity. But  secondly,  I  read  them  that  I  may  press  on  your 
attention  these  singular  words,  '  painful  and  humiliating  exact- 
ness.' Singular,  as  expressing  the  first  conditions  of  the  study 
required  from  his  pupils  by  the  master,  who,  of  all  men  except 
Velasquez,  seems  to  have  painted  with  the  greatest  ease.  It  is 
true  that  he  asks  this  pain,  this  humiliation,  only  from  youths 
who  intend  to  follow  the  profession  of  artists.  But  if  you  wish 
yourselves  to  know  anything  of  the  practice  of  art,  you  must 
not  suppose  that  because  3rour  study  will  be  more  desultory 
than  that  of  Academy  students,  it  may  therefore  be  less  accu- 
rate. The  shorter  the  time  you  have  to  give,  the  more  care- 
ful you  should  be  to  spend  it  profitably ;  and  I  would  not 
wTish  you  to  devote  one  hour  to  the  practice  of  drawing,  unless 
you  are  resolved  to  be  informed  in  it  of  all  that  in  an  hour 
can  be  taught. 

128.  I  speak  of  the  practice  of  drawing  only ;  though  ele- 
mentary study  of  modelling  may  perhaps  some  day  be  advis- 
ably connected  with  it ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  or  amuse 
you  with  a  formal  statement  of  the  manifold  expectations  I 
have  formed  respecting  your  future  work.  You  will  not,  I  am 
sure,  imagine  that  I  have  begun  without  a  plan,  nor  blame  my 
reticence  as  to  the  parts  of  it  which  cannot  yet  be  put  into 
execution,  and  which  there  may  occur  reason  afterwards  to 
modify.  My  first  task  must  unquestionable  be  to  lay  before 
you  right  and  simple  methods  of  drawing  and  colouring. 

I  use  the  word  *  colouring  '  without  reference  to  any  par- 
ticular vehicle  of  colour,  for  the  laws  of  good  painting  are  the 
same,  whatever  liquid  is  employed  to  dissolve  the  pigments. 
But  the  technical  management  of  oil  is  more  difficult  thar* 


LINE. 


277 


that  of  water-colour,  and  the  impossibility  of  using  it  with 
safety  among  books  or  prints,  and  its  unavailableness  for  note- 
book sketches  and  memoranda,  are  sufficient  reasons  for  noi; 
introducing  it  in  a  course  of  practice  intended  chiefly  for  stu- 
dents of  literature.  On  the  contrary,  in  the  exercises  of  art- 
ists, oil  should  be  the  vehicle  of  colour  employed  from  the 
first.  The  extended  practice  of  water-colour  painting,  as  a 
separate  skill,  is  in  every  way  harmful  to  the  arts :  its  pleas- 
ant slightness  and  plausible  dexterity  divert  the  genius  of  the 
painter  from  its  proper  aims,  and  withdraw  the  attention  of 
the  public  from  excellence  of  higher  claim  ;  nor  ought  any 
man,  who  has  the  consciousness  of  ability  for  good  work,  to 
be  ignorant  of,  or  indolent  in  employing,  the  methods  of 
making  its  results  permanent  as  long  as  the  laws  of  Nature 
allow.  It  is  surely  a  severe  lesson  to  us  in  this  matter,  that 
the  best  works  of  Turner  could  not  be  shown  to  the  public 
for  six  months  without  being  destroyed, — and  that  his  most 
ambitious  ones  for  the  most  part  perished,  even  before  they 
could  be  shown.  I  will  break  through  my  law  of  reticence, 
however,  so  far  as  to  tell  you  that  I  have  hope  of  one  day  in- 
teresting you  greatly  (with  the  help  of  the  Florentine  mas- 
ters), in  the  study  of  the  arts  of  moulding  and  painting  porce- 
lain ;  and  to  induce  some  of  you  to  use  your  future  power  oi 
patronage  in  encouraging  the  various  branches  of  this  art, 
and  turning  the  attention  of  the  workmen  of  Italy  from  the 
vulgar  tricks  of  minute  and  perishable  mosaic  to  the  exqui- 
site subtilties  of  form  and  colour  possible  in  the  perfectly 
ductile,  afterwards  unalterable  clay.  And  one  of  the  ultimate 
results  of  such  craftsmanship  might  be  the  production  of  pic- 
tures as  brilliant  as  painted  glass, — as  delicate  as  the  most 
subtle  water-colours,  and  more  permanent  than  the  Pyramids. 

129.  And  now  to  begin  our  own  work.  In  order  that  we 
may  know  how  rightly  to  learn  to  draw,  and  to  paint,  it  will 
be  necessary,  will  it  not,  that  we  know  first  what  we  are  to  aim 
at  doing  ; — what  kind  of  representation  of  nature  is  best  ? 

I  will  tell  you  in  the  words  of  Lionardo.  'That  is  the 
most  praiseworthy  painting  which  has  most  conformity  with 
the  thing  represented/  ■  quella  pittura  e  piu  laudabile,  la  quale 


278 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ha  piu  conformita  con  la  cosa  imitata/  (chap.  276).  In  plain 
terms,  '  the  painting  which  is  likest  nature  is  the  best.'  And 
you  will  find  by  referring  to  the  preceding  chapter,  '  come  lo 
specchio  e  maestro  de'  pittori/  how  absolutely  Lionardo 
means  what  he  says.  Let  the  living  thing,  (he  tells  us,)  be 
reflected  in  a  mirror,  then  put  your  picture  beside  the  reflec- 
tion, and  match  the  one  with  the  other.  And  indeed,  the 
very  best  painting  is  unquestionably  so  like  the  mirrored 
truth,  that  all  the  world  admit  its  excellence.  Entirely  first- 
rate  work  is  so  quiet  and  natural  that  there  can  be  no  dispute 
over  it ;  you  may  not  particularly  admire  it,  but  you  will  find 
no  fault  with  it.  Second-rate  painting  pleases  one  person 
much,  and  displeases  another  ;  but  first-rate  painting  pleases 
all  a  little,  and  intensely  pleases  those  who  can  recognise  its 
unostentatious  skill. 

130.  This,  then,  is  what  we  have  first  got  to  do — to  make 
our  drawing  look  as  like  the  thing  we  have  to  draw  as  Ave  can. 

Now,  all  objects  are  seen  by  the  eye  as  patches  of  colour  of 
a  certain  shape,  with  gradations  of  colour  within  them.  And, 
unless  their  colours  be  actually  luminous,  as  those  of  the  sun, 
or  of  fire,  these  patches  of  different  hues  are  sufficiently  insta- 
ble, except  so  far  as  they  are  seen  stereoscopically.  You  will 
find  Lionardo  again  and  again  insisting  on  the  stereoscopic 
power  of  the  double  sight :  but  do  not  let  that  trouble  you  ; 
you  can  only  paint  what  you  can  see  from  one  point  of  sight,  but 
that  is  quite  enough.  So  seen,  then,  all  objects  appear  to  the 
human  eye  simply  as  masses  of  colour  of  variable  depth,  tex- 
ture, and  outline.  The  outline  of  any  object  is  the  limit  of  its 
mass,  as  relieved  against  another  mass.  Take  a  crocus,  and  put 
it  on  a  green  cloth.  You  will  see  it  detach  itself  as  a  mere  space 
of  yellow  from  the  green  behind  it,  as  it  does  from  the  grass. 
Hold  it  up  against  the  window — you  will  see  it  detach  itself 
as  a  dark  space  against  the  white  or  blue  behind  it.  In  either 
case  its  outline  is  the  limit  of  the  space  of  colour  by  which  it 
expresses  itself  to  your  sight.  That  outline  is  therefore  infi- 
nitely subtle— not  even  a  line,  but  the  place  of  a  line,  and  that, 
also,  made  soft  by  texture.  In  the  finest  painting,  it  is  there- 
fore slightly  softened  ;  but  it  is  necessary  to  be  able  to  draw 


LINE. 


it  with  absolute  sharpness  and  precision.  The  art  of  doing 
this  is  to  be  obtained  by  drawing  it  as  an  actual  line,  which 
art  is  to  be  the  subject  of  our  present  enquiry  ;  but  I  must  first 
lay  the  divisions  of  the  entire  subject  completely  before  you. 

131.  I  have  said  that  all  objects  detach  themselves  as  masses 
of  colour.  Usually,  light  and  shade  are  thought  of  as  separate 
from  colour  ;  but  the  fact  is  that  all  nature  is  seen  as  a  mosaic 
composed  of  graduated  portions  of  different  colours,  dark  or 
light.  There  is  no  difference  in  the  quality  of  these  colours, 
except  as  affected  by  texture.  You  will  constantly  hear  lights 
and  shades  spoken  of  as  if  these  were  different  in  nature,  and 
to  be  painted  in  different  ways.  But  every  light  is  a  shadow 
compared  to  higher  lights,  till  we  reach  the  brightness  of  the 
sun  ;  and  every  shadow  is  a  light  compared  to  lower  shadows, 
till  we  reach  the  darkness  of  night. 

Every  colour  used  in  painting,  except  pure  white  and 
black,  is  therefore  a  light  and  shade  at  the  same  time.  It  is 
a  light  with  reference  to  all  below  it,  and  a  shade  with  re- 
ference to  all  above  it. 

132.  The  solid  forms  of  an  object,  that  is  to  say,  the  pro- 
jections or  recessions  of  its  surface  within  the  outline,  are, 
for  the  most  part,  rendered  visible  by  variations  in  the  in- 
tensity or  quantity  of  light  falling  on  them.  The  study  of 
the  relations  between  the  quantities  of  this  light,  irrespective- 
ly of  its  colour,  is  the  second  division  of  the  regulated  science 
of  painting. 

133.  Finally,  the  qualities  and  relations  of  natural  colours, 
the  means  of  imitating  them,  and  the  laws  by  which  they  be- 
come separately  beautiful,  and  in  association,  harmonious, 
are  the  subjects  of  the  third  and  final  division  of  the  painter's 
study.  I  shall  endeavour  at  once  to  state  to  you  what  is 
most  immediately  desirable  for  you  to  know  on  each  of  these 
subjects,  in  this  and  the  two  following  lectures. 

134.  What  we  have  to  do,  then,  from  beginning  to  end, 
is,  I  repeat  once  more,  simply  to  draw  spaces  of  their  true 
shape,  and  to  fill  them  with  colours  which  shall  match  their 
colours  ;  quite  a  simple  thing  in  the  definition  of  it,  not 
quite  so  easy  in  the  doing  of  it. 


280 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


But  it  is  something  to  get  this  simple  definition  ;  and  1 
wish  you  to  notice  that  the  terms  of  it  are  complete,  though 
I  do  not  introduce  the  terms 'light'  or  'shadow.'  Painters 
who  have  no  eye  for  colour  have  greatly  confused  and  falsified 
the  practice  of  art  by  the  theory  that  shadow  is  an  absence 
of  colour.  Shadow  is,  on  the  contrary,  necessary  to  the  full 
presence  of  colour  ;  for  every  colour  is  a  diminished  quantity 
or  energy  of  light  ;  and,  practically,  it  follows,  from  what  I 
have  just  told  you  (that  every  light  in  painting  is  a  shadow  to 
higher  lights,  and  every  shadow  a  light  to  lower  shadows) 
that  also  every  colour  in  painting  must  be  a  shadow  to  some 
brighter  colour,  and  a  light  to  some  darker  one — all  the 
while  being  a  positive  colour  itself.  And  the  great  splendour 
of  the  Venetian  school  arises  from  their  having  seen  and  held 
from  the  beginning  this  great  fact — that  shadow  is  as  much 
colour  as  light,  often  much  more.  In  Titian's  fullest  red  the 
lights  are  pale  rose-colour,  passing  into  white — the  shadows 
warm  deep  crimson.  In  Veronese's  most  splendid  orange, 
the  lights  are  pale,  the  shadows  crocus  colour  ;  and  so  on. 
In  nature,  dark  sides,  if  seen  by  reflected  lights,  are  almost 
always  fuller  or  warmer  in  colour  than  the  lights ;  and  the 
practice  of  the  Bolognese  and  Roman  schools,  in  drawing 
their  shadows  always  dark  and  cold,  is  false  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  renders  perfect  painting  for  ever  impossible  in 
those  schools,  and  all  that  follow  them. 

135.  Every  visible  space,  then,  be  it  dark  or  light,  is  a  space 
of  colour  of  some  kind,  or  of  black  or  white.  And  you  have  to  en- 
close it  with  a  true  outline,  and  to  paint  it  with  its  true  colour. 

But  before  considering  how  we  are  to  draw  this  enclosing 
line,  I  must  state  to  you  something  about  lines  in  general, 
and  their  use  by  different  schools.  I  said  just  now  that  there 
was  no  difference  between  the  masses  of  colour  of  which  all 
visible  nature  is  composed,  except  in  texture. 

1.  Textures  are  principally  of  three  kinds  : — 

(1)  Lustrous,  as  of  water  and  glass. 

(2)  Bloomy,  or  velvety,  as  of  a  rose-leaf  or  peach. 

(3)  Linear,  produced  by  filaments  or  threads,  as  in 

feathers,  fur,  hair,  and  woven  or  reticulated  tissues. 


LINE. 


281 


All  the  three  sources  of  pleasure  to  the  eye  in  texture  aro 
united  in  the  best  ornamental  work.  A  fine  picture  by  Fra 
Angelico,  or  a  fine  illuminated  page  of  missal,  has  large  spaces 
of  gold,  partly  burnished  and  lustrous,  partly  dead  ; — some  of 
it  chased  and  enriched  with  linear  texture,  and  mingled  with 
imposed  or  inlaid  colours,  soft  in  bloom  like  that  of  the  rose* 
leaf.  But  many  schools  of  art  depend  for  the  most  part  on 
one  kind  of  texture  only,  and  a  vast  quantity  of  the  art  of  all 
ages  rests  for  great  part  of  its  power  especially  on  texture 
produced  by  multitudinous  lines.  Thus,  wood  engraving, 
line  engraving  properly  so  called,  and  countless  varieties  of 
sculpture,  metal  work,  and  textile  fabric,  depend  for  great 
part  of  the  effect  of  their  colors,  or  shades,  for  their  mystery, 
softness,  and  clearness,  on  modification  of  the  surfaces  by 
lines  or  threads  ;  and  even  in  advanced  oil  painting,  the  work 
often  depends  for  some  part  of  its  effect  on  the  texture  of  the 
canvas. 

136.  Again,  the  arts  of  etching  and  mezzotint  engraving 
depend  principally  for  their  effect  on  the  velvety,  or  bloomy 
texture  of  their  darkness,  and  the  best  of  all  painting  is  the 
fresco  work  of  great  colourists,  in  which  the  colours  are  what 
is  usually  called  dead  ;  but  they  are  anything  but  dead,  they 
glow  with  the  luminous  bloom  of  life.  The  frescoes  of  Cor- 
reggio,  when  not  repainted,  are  supreme  in  this  quality ;  and 
you  have  a  lovely  example  in  the  University  Galleries,  in  the 
untouched  portion  of  the  female  head  by  Raphael,  partly  re- 
stored by  Lawrence. 

137.  "While,  however,  in  all  periods  of  art  these  different 
textures  are  thus  used  in  various  styles,  and  for  various  pur- 
poses, you  will  find  that  there  is  a  broad  historical  division  of 
schools,  which  will  materially  assist  you  in  understanding 
them.  The  earliest  art  in  most  countries  is  linear,  consisting 
of  interwoven,  or  richly  spiral  and  otherwise  involved  arrange- 
ments of  sculptured  or  painted  lines,  on  stone,  wood,  metal, 
or  clay.  It  is  generally  characteristic  of  savage  life,  and  of 
feverish  energy  of  imagination.  I  shall  examine  these  schools 
with  you  hereafter,  under  the  general  head  of  the  '  Schools  of 
Line.' 


282 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


Secondly,  even  in  the  earliest  periods,  among  powerful  na» 
tions,  this  linear  decoration  is  more  or  less  filled  with  chequered 
or  barred  shade,  and  begins  at  once  to  represent  animal  or 
floral  form,  first  in  mere  outline,  and  then  by  outlines  filled  with 
flat  shadow,  or  with  flat  colour.  And  here  we  instantly  find 
two  great  divisions  of  temper  and  thought.  The  Greeks  look 
upon  all  colour  first  as  light ;  they  are,  as  compared  with  other 
races,  insensitive  to  hue,  exquisitely  sensitive  to  phenomena 
of  light.  And  their  linear  school  passes  into  one  of  flat  masses 
of  light  and  darkness,  represented  in  the  main  by  four  tints, — 
white,  black,  and  two  reds,  one  brick  colour,  more  or  less 
vivid,  the  other  dark  purple  ;  these  two  representing  their 
favourite  irop<\> Jpeos  colour,  in  its  light  and  dark  powers.  On 
the  other  hand,  many  of  the  Northern  nations  are  at  first  en- 
tirely insensible  to  light  and  shade,  but  exquisitely  sensitive 
to  colour,  and  their  linear  decoration  is  filled  with  flat  tints, 
infinitely  varied,  having  no  expression  of  light  and  shade. 
Both  these  schools  have  a  limited  but  absolute  perfection  of 
their  own,  and  their  peculiar  successes  can  in  no  wise  be  im- 
itated, except  by  the  strictest  observance  of  the  same  limitations. 

138.  You  have  then,  Line  for  the  earliest  art,  branching 
into — 

(1)  Greek,  Line  with  Light. 

(2)  Gothic,  Line  with  Colour. 

Now,  as  art  completes  itself,  each  of  these  schools  retain 
their  separate  characters,  but  they  cease  to  depend  on  lines, 
and  learn  to  represent  masses  instead,  becoming  more  refined 
at  the  same  time  in  all  modes  of  perception  and  execution. 

And  thus  there  arise  the  two  vast  mediaeval  schools  ;  one  of 
flat  and  infinitely  varied  colour,  with  exquisite  character  and 
sentiment  added,  in  the  forms  represented  ;  but  little  percep- 
tion of  shadow.  The  other,  of  light  and  shade,  with  exquisite 
drawing  of  solid  form,  and  little  perception  of  colour :  some- 
times as  little  of  sentiment.  Of  these,  the  school  of  flat  col- 
our is  the  more  vital  one  ;  it  is  always  natural  and  simple,  if 
not  great  ; — and  when  it  is  great,  it  is  very  great. 

The  school  of  light  and  shade  associates  itself  with  that  of 
engraving  ;  it  is  essentially  an  academical  school ;  broadly  di- 


LINE. 


283 


viding  light  from  darkness,  and  begins  by  assuming  that  the 
light  side  of  all  objects  shall  be  represented  by  white,  and  the 
extreme  shadow  by  black.  On  this  conventional  principle  it 
reaches  a  limited  excellence  of  its  own,  in  which  the  best  ex- 
isting types  of  engraving  are  executed,  and  ultimately,  the 
most  regular  expressions  of  organic  form  in  painting. 

Then,  lastly, — the  schools  of  colour  advance  steadily  till 
they  adopt  from  those  of  light  and  shade,  whatever  is  com- 
patible with  their  own  power,  — and  then  you  have  perfect  art, 
represented  centrally  by  that  of  the  great  Venetians. 

The  schools  of  light  and  shade,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
partly,  in  their  academical  formulas,  too  haughty,  and  partly, 
in  their  narrowness  of  imagination,  too  weak,  to  learn  much 
from  the  schools  of  colour  ;  and  they  pass  into  a  decadence, 
consisting  partly  in  proud  endeavours  to  give  painting  the 
qualities  of  sculpture,  and  partly  in  the  pursuit  of  effects  of 
light  and  shade,  carried  at  last  to  extreme  sensational  subtlety 
by  the  Dutch  school.  In  their  fall,  they  drag  the  schools  of 
colour  down  with  them  ;  and  the  recent  history  of  art  is  one 
of  confused  effort  to  find  lost  roads,  and  resume  allegiance  to 
violated  principles. 

139.  That,  briefly,  is  the  map  of  the  great  schools,  easily 
remembered  by  this  form  : — 


Line. 
Early  Schools. 


Line  and  Light. 
Greek  clay. 


Line  and  Colour. 
Gothic  glass. 


Mass  and  Light. 
(Represented  by  Lionardo, 
and  his  schools.) 


Mass  and  Colour. 
(Represented  by  Giorgione, 
and  his  schools.) 


Mass,  Light,  and  Colour. 
(Represented  by  Titian, 
and  his  schools. ) 


I  will  endeavour  hereafter  to  show  you  the  various  relations 
of  all  these  branches ;  at  present,  I  am  only  concerned  with 
your  own  practice.    My  wish  is  that  you  should  with  your 


284 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


own  eyes  and  fingers  trace,  and  in  your  own  progress  follow, 
the  method  of  advance  traced  for  you  by  these  great  schools. 
I  wish  you  to  begin  by  getting  command  of  line,  that  is  to 
say,  by  learning  to  draw  a  steady  line,  limiting  with  absolute 
correctness  the  form  or  space  you  intend  it  to  limit ;  to  pro- 
ceed by  getting  command  over  flat  tints,  so  that  you  may  b8 
able  to  fill  the  spaces  you  have  enclosed,  evenly,  either  with 
shade  or  colour  ;  according  to  the  school  you  adopt ;  and 
finally  to  obtain  the  power  of  adding  such  fineness  of  drawing 
within  the  masses,  as  shall  express  their  undulation,  and  their 
characters  of  form  and  texture. 

140.  Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  methods  of  existing 
schools  must  be  aware  that  I  thus  nearly  invert  their  practice 
of  teaching.  Students  at  present  learn  to  draw  details  first, 
and  to  colour  and  mass  them  afterwards.  I  shall  endeavour 
to  teach  you  to  arrange  broad  masses  and  colours  first ;  and 
you  shall  put  the  details  into  them  afterwards.  I  have  several 
reasons  for  this  audacity,  of  which  you  may  justly  require  me 
to  state  the  principal  ones.  The  first  is  that,  as  I  have  shown 
you,  this  method  I  wish  you  to  follow,  is  the  natural  one.  All 
great  artist  nations  have  actually  learned  to  work  in  this  way, 
and  I  believe  it  therefore  the  right,  as  the  hitherto  successful 
one.  Secondly,  you  will  find  it  less  irksome  than  the  reverse 
method,  and  more  definite.  When  a  beginner  is  set  at  once 
to  draw  details,  and  make  finished  studies  in  light  and  shade, 
no  master  can  correct  his  innumerable  errors,  or  rescue  him 
out  of  his  endless  difficulties.  But  in  the  natural  method,  he 
can  correct,  if  he  will,  his  own  errors.  You  will  have  positive 
lines  to  draw,  presenting  no  more  difficulty,  except  in  requir- 
ing greater  steadiness  of  hand,  than  the  outlines  of  a  map. 
They  will  be  generally  sweeping  and  simple,  instead  of  being 
jagged  into  promontories  and  bays  ;  but  assuredly,  they  may 
be  drawn  rightly  (with  patience),  and  their  rightness  tested 
with  mathematical  accuracy.  You  have  only  to  follow  your 
own  line  with  tracing  paper,  and  apply  it  to  your  copy.  If 
they  do  not  correspond,  you  are  wrong,  and  you  need  no 
master  to  show  you  where.  Again  ;  in  washing  in  a  flat  tone 
of  colour  or  shade,  you  can  always  see  yourself  if  it  is  flat,  and 


LINE. 


285 


kept  well  within  the  edges  ;  and  you  can  set  a  piece  of  your 
colour  side  by  side  with  that  of  the  copy  ;  if  it  does  not  match, 
you  are  wrong  ;  and,  again,  you  need  no  one  to  tell  you  so, 
if  your  eye  for  color  is  true.  It  happens,  indeed,  more  fre- 
quently than  would  be  supposed,  that  there  is  real  want  of 
power  in  the  eye  to  distinguish  colours  ;  and  this  I  even  su& 
pect  to  be  a  condition  which  has  been  sometimes  attendant  on 
high  degrees  of  cerebral  sensitiveness  in  other  directions  :  but 
such  want  of  faculty  would  be  detected  in  your  first  two  or 
three  exercises  by  this  simple  method,  while,  otherwise  you 
might  go  on  for  years  endeavouring  to  colour  from  nature  in 
vain.  Lastly,  and  this  is  a  very  weighty  collateral  reason, 
such  a  method  enables  me  to  show  you  many  things,  besides 
the  art  of  drawing.  Every  exercise  that  I  prepare  for  you 
will  be  either  a  portion  of  some  important  example  of  ancient 
art,  or  of  some  natural  object.  However  rudely  or  unsuccess- 
fully you  may  draw  it  (though  I  anticipate  from  you  neither 
want  of  care  nor  success),  you  will  nevertheless  have  learned 
what  no  words  could  have  as  forcibly  or  completely  taught 
you,  either  respecting  early  art  or  organic  structure  ;  and  I 
am  thus  certain  that  not  a  moment  you  spend  attentively  will 
be  altogether  wasted,  and  that,  generally,  you  will  be  twice 
gainers  by  every  effort.  There  is,  however,  yet  another  point 
in  which  I  think  a  change  of  existing  methods  will  be  ad- 
visable. 

141.  You  have  here  in  Oxford  one  of  the  finest  collections 
in  Europe  of  drawings  in  pen,  and  chalk,  by  Michael  Angelo 
and  Raphael.  Of  the  whole  number,  you  cannot  but  have  no- 
ticed that  not  one  is  wreak  or  studentlike — all  are  evidently 
master's  work. 

You  may  look  the  galleries  of  Europe  through,  and  so  far 
as  I  know,  or  as  it  is  possible  to  make  with  safety  any  so  wide 
generalization,  you  will  not  find  in  them  a  childish  or  feeble 
drawing,  by  these,  or  by  any  other  great  master. 

And  farther  : — by  the  greatest  men — by  Titian,  Velasquez, 
or  Veronese — you  will  hardly  find  an  authentic  drawing  at  all. 
For  the  fact  is,  that  while  we  moderns  have  always  learned,  or 
tried  to  learn,  to  paint  by  drawing,  the  ancients  learned  to 


286 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


draw  by  painting — or  by  engraving,  more  difficult  still.  The 
brush  was  put  into  their  hands  when  they  were  children,  and 
they  were  forced  to  draw  with  that,  until,  if  they  used  the  pen 
or  crayon,  they  used  it  either  with  the  lightness  of  a  brush  or 
the  decision  of  a  graver.  Michael  Angelo  uses  his  pen  like  a 
chisel ;  but  all  of  them  s§em  to  use  it  only  when  they  are  in 
the  height  of  their  power,  and  then  for  rapid  notation  of 
thought  or  for  study  of  models  ;  but  never  as  a  practice  help- 
ing them  to  paint.  Probably  exercises  of  the  severest  kind 
were  gone  through  in  minute  drawing  by  the  apprentices  of 
the  goldsmiths,  of  which  we  hear  and  know  little,  and  which 
were  entirely  a  matter  of  course.  To  these,  and  to  the  exquis- 
iteness  of  care  and  touch  developed  in  working  precious  met- 
als, may  probably  be  attributed  the  final  triumph  of  Italian 
sculpture.  Michael  Angelo,  when  a  boy,  is  said  to  have  copied 
engravings  by  Schongauer  and  others  with  his  pen,  in  facsimile 
so  true  that  he  could  pass  his  drawings  as  the  originals.  But 
I  should  only  discourage  you  from  all  farther  attempts  in  art, 
if  I  asked  you  to  imitate  any  of  these  accomplished  drawings 
of  the  gem-artificers.  You  have,  fortunately,  a  most  interest- 
ing collection  of  them  already  in  your  galleries,  and  may  try 
your  hands  on  them  if  you  will.  But  I  desire  rather  that  you 
should  attempt  nothing  except  what  can  by  determination  be 
absolutely  accomplished,  and  be  known  and  felt  by  you  to  be 
accomplished,  when  it  is  so.  Now,  therefore,  I  am  going  at 
once  to  comply  with  that  popular  instinct  which,  I  hope,  so 
far  as  you  care  for  drawing  at  all,  you  are  still  boys  enough  to 
feel,  the  desire  to  paint.  Paint  you  shall :  but  remember,  I 
understand  by  painting  what  you  will  not  find  easy.  Paint 
you  shall ;  but  daub  or  blot  you  shall  not :  and  there  will  be 
even  more  care  required,  though  care  of  a  pleasanter  kind,  to 
follow  the  lines  traced  for  you  with  the  point  of  the  brush 
than  if  they  had  been  drawn  with  that  of  a  crayon.  But  from 
the  very  beginning  (though  carrying  on  at  the  same  time  an 
incidental  practice  with  crayon  and  lead  pencil),  you  shall  try 
to  draw  a  line  of  absolute  correctness  writh  the  point,  not  of 
pen  or  crayon,  but  of  the  brush,  as  Apelles  did,  and  as  all  col- 
oured lines  are  drawn  on  Greek  vases.    A  line  of  absolute  cor. 


LINE. 


287 


r ectness,  observe.  I  do  not  care  how  slowly  you  do  it,  or  with 
how  many  alterations,  junctions,  or  retouchings ;  the  one  thing 
I  ask  of  you  is,  that  the  line  shall  be  right,  and  right  by  meas- 
urement, to  the  same  minuteness  which  you  would  have  to 
give  in  a  Government  chart  to  the  map  of  a  dangerous  shoal. 

142.  This  question  of  measurement  is,  as  you  are  probably 
aware,  one  much  vexed  in  art  schools  ;  but  it  is  determined 
indisputably  by  the  very  first  words  written  by  Lionardo  :  '  II 
giovane  deve  prima  imparare  prospettiva,  per  le  misure  d'  ogni 
cosa.' 

Without  absolute  precision  of  measurement,  it  is  certainly 
impossible  for  you  to  learn  perspective  rightly  ;  and  as  far  as 
I  can  judge,  impossible  to  learn  anything  else  rightly.  And 
in  my  past  experience  of  teaching,  I  have  found  that  such  pre- 
cision is  of  all  things  the  most  difficult  to  enforce  on  the  pu- 
pils. It  is  easy  to  persuade  to  diligence,  or  provoke  to  enthu- 
siasm ;  but  I  have  found  it  hitherto  impossible  to  humiliate 
owe  student  into  perfect  accuracy. 

It  is,  therefore,  necessary,  in  beginning  a  system  of  drawing 
for  the  University,  that  no  opening  should  be  left  for  failure 
in  this  essential  matter.  I  hope  you  will  trust  the  words  of 
the  most  accomplished  draughtsman  of  Italy,  and  the  painter 
of  the  great  sacred  picture  which,  perhaps  beyond  all  others, 
has  influenced  the  mind  of  Europe,  when  he  tells  you  that 
your  first  duty  is  '  to  learn  perspective  by  the  measures  of 
everything.'  For  perspective,  I  will  undertake  that  it  shall 
be  made,  practically,  quite  easy  to  you  ;  but  I  wish  first  to 
make  application  to  the  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery  for 
the  loan  to  Oxford  of  Turner's  perspective  diagrams,  wiiich 
are  at  present  lying  useless  in  a  folio  in  the  National  Gallery ; 
and  therefore  we  will  not  trouble  ourselves  about  perspective 
till  the  autumn  ;  unless,  in  the  meanwhile,  you  care  to  master 
the  mathematical  theory  of  it,  which  I  have  carried  as  far  as 
is  necessary  for  you  in  my  treatise  written  in  1859,  of  which 
copies  shall  be  placed  at  your  disposal  in  your  working  room. 
But  the  habit  and  dexterity  of  measurement  you  must  acquire 
at  once,  and  that  with  engineer's  accuracy.  I  hope  that  in  our 
now  gradually  developing  system  of  education,  elementary 


288 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


architectural  or  military  drawing  will  be  required  at  all  pub« 
lie  schools  ;  so  that  wThen  youths  come  to  the  University,  ifc 
may  be  no  more  necessary  for  them  to  pass  through  the  pre* 
liminary  exercises  of  drawing  than  of  grammar  :  for  the  pres- 
ent, I  will  place  in  your  series  examples  simple  and  severe 
enough  for  all  necessary  practice. 

143.  And  while  you  are  learning  to  measure,  and  to  draw, 
and  lay  flat  tints,  with  the  brush,  you  must  also  get  easy 
command  of  the  pen ;  for  that  is  not  only  the  great  instrument 
for  the  finest  sketching,  but  its  right  use  is  the  foundation  of 
the  art  of  illumination.  In  nothing  is  fine  art  more  directly 
connected  with  service  than  in  the  close  dependence  of  decor- 
ative illumination  on  good  writing.  Perfect  illumination  is 
only  writing  made  lovely  ;  the  moment  it  passes  into  picture- 
making  it  ha3  lost  its  dignity  and  function.  For  pictures, 
small  or  great,  if  beautiful,  ought  not  to  be  painted  on  leaves 
of  books,  to  be  worn  with  service  ;  and  pictures,  small  or 
great,  not  beautiful,  should  be  painted  nowhere.  But  to 
make  writing  itself  beautiful, — to  make  the  sweep  of  the  pen 
lovely, — is  the  true  art  of  illumination  ;  and  I  particularly 
wish  you  to  note  this,  because  it  happens  continually  that 
young  girls  who  are  incapable  of  tracing  a  single  curve  with 
steadiness,  much  more  of  delineating  any  ornamental  or  or- 
ganic form  with  correctness,  think  that  the  work  which  would 
be  intolerable  in  ordinary  drawing  becomes  tolerable  when 
it  is  employed  for  the  decoration  of  texts ;  and  thus  they  ren- 
der all  healthy  progress  impossible,  by  protecting  themselves 
in  inefficiency  under  the  shield  of  a  good  motive.  Whereas 
the  right  way  of  setting  to  wTork  is  to  make  themselves  first 
mistresses  of  the  art  of  writing  beautifully ;  and  then  to  apply 
that  art  in  its  proper  degrees  of  development  to  whatever 
they  desire  permanently  to  write.  And  it  is  indeed  a  much 
more  truly  religious  duty  for  girls  to  acquire  a  habit  of  delib- 
erate, legible,  and  lovely  penmanship  in  their  daily  use  of  the 
pen,  than  to  illuminate  any  quantity  of  texts.  Having  done 
so,  they  may  next  discipline  their  hands  into  the  control  of 
lines  of  any  length,  and,  finally,  add  the  beauty  of  colour  and 
form  to  the  flowing  of  these  perfect  lines.  But  it  is  only  after 


LIKE. 


289 


years  of  practice  that  they  will  be  able  to  illuminate  noble 
words  rightly  for  the  eyes,  as  it  is  only  after  years  of  practice 
that  they  can  make  them  melodious  rightly,  with  the  voice. 

144.  I  shall  not  attempt,  in  this  lecture,  to  give  you  any 
account  of  the  use  of  the  pen  as  a  drawing  instrument.  That 
use  is  connected  in  many  ways  with  principles  both  of  shad- 
ing and  of  engraving,  hereafter  to  be  examined  at  length. 
But  I  may  generally  state  to  you  that  its  best  employment  is 
in  giving  determination  to  the  forms  in  drawings  wrashed  with 
neutral  tint ;  and  that,  in  this  use  of  it,  Holbein  is  quite  with- 
out a  rival.  I  have  therefore  placed  many  examples  of  his 
work  among  your  copies,,  It  is  emplo}<ed  for  rapid  study  by 
Raphael  and  other  masters  of  delineation,  who,  in  such  cases, 
give  with  it  also  partial  indications  of  shadow ;  but  it  is  not  a 
proper  instrument  for  shading,  when  drawings  are  intended 
to  be  deliberate  and  complete,  nor  do  the  great  masters  ever 
so  employ  it.  Its  virtue  is  the  power  of  producing  a  perfectly 
delicate,  equal,  and  decisive  line  with  great  rapidity  ;  and  the 
temptation  allied  with  that  virtue  is  to  licentious  haste,  and 
chance- swept  instead  of  strictly-commanded  curvature.  In 
the  hands  of  very  great  painters  it  obtains,  like  the  etching 
needle,  qualities  of  exquisite  charm  in  this  free  use  ;  but  all 
attempts  at  imitation  of  these  confused  and  suggestive 
sketches  must  be  absolutely  denied  to  yourselves  while  stu- 
dents. You  may  fancy  you  have  produced  something  like 
them  with  little  trouble  ;  but,  be  assured,  it  is  in  reality  as 
unlike  them  as  nonsense  is  unlike  sense  ;  and  that,  if  you 
persist  in  such  work,  you  will  not  only  prevent  your  own  ex- 
ecutive progress,  but  you  will  never  understand  in  all  your 
lives  what  good  painting  means.  Whenever  you  take  a  pen 
in  your  hand,  if  you  cannot  count  every  line  you  lay  with  it, 
and  say  why  you  make  it  so  long  and  no  longer,  and  why 
you  drew  it  in  that  direction  and  no  other,  your  work  is  bad. 
The  only  man  who  can  put  his  pen  to  full  speed,  and  yet  re- 
tain command  over  every  separate  line  of  it,  is  Diirer.  He 
has  done  this  in  the  illustrations  of  a  missal  preserved  at 
Munich,  which  have  been  fairly  facsimiled  ;  and  of  these  1 
have  placed  several  in  your  copying  series,  with  some  of  Tuf 


290 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ner's  landscape  etchings  and  other  examples  of  deliberate 
pen  work,  such  as  will  advantage  you  in  early  study.  The 
proper  use  of  them  you  will  find  explained  in  the  catalogue. 

145.  And,  now,  but  one  word  more  to-day.  Do  not  impute 
to  me  the  impertinence  of  setting  before  you  what  is  new  in 
this  system  of  practice  as  being  certainly  the  best  method. 
No  English  artists  are  yet  agreed  entirely  on  early  methods  ; 
and  even  Keynolds  expresses  with  some  hesitation  his  convic- 
tion of  the  expediency  of  learning  to  draw  with  the  brush. 
But  this  method  that  I  show  you  rests  in  all  essential  points 
on  his  authority,  on  Lionardo's,  or  on  the  evident  as  well  as 
recorded  practice  of  the  most  splendid  Greek  and  Italian 
draughtsmen  ;  and  you  may  be  assured  it  will  lead  you,  how- 
ever slowly,  to  a  great  and  certain  skill.  To  what  degree  of 
skill,  must  depend  greatly  on  yourselves  ;  but  I  know  that  in 
practice  of  this  kind  you  cannot  spend  an  hour  without  defi- 
nitely gaining,  both  in  true  knowledge  of  art,  and  in  useful 
power  of  hand  ;  and  for  what  may  appear  in  it  too  difficult,  I 
must  shelter  or  support  myself,  as  in  beginning,  so  in  closing, 
this  first  lecture  on  practice,  by  the  words  of  Reynolds  :  '  The 
impetuosity  of  youth  is  disgusted  at  the  slow  approaches  of 
a  regular  siege,  and  desires  from  mere  impatience  of  labour 
to  take  the  citadel  by  storm.  They  must  therefore  be  told 
again  and  again  that  labour  is  the  only  price  of  solid  fame, 
and  that,  whatever  their  force  of  genius  may  be,  there  is  no 
easy  method  of  becoming  a  good  painter/ 


LECTURE  VL 

LIGHT. 

146.  The  plan  of  the  divisions  of  art-schools  which  I  gave 
you  in  last  lecture  is  of  course  only  a  first  germ  of  classifica- 
tion, on  which  we  are  to  found  farther  and  more  defined 
statement ;  but  for  this  very  reason  it  is  necessary  that  every 
term  of  it  should  be  very  clear  in  your  minds. 

And  especially  I  must  ask  you  to  note  the  sense  in  which  I 
use  the  word  '  mass.'    Artists  usually  employ  that  word  to 


LIGHT. 


291 


express  the  spaces  of  light  and  darkness,  or  of  colour,  into 
which  a  picture  is  divided.  But  this  habit  of  theirs  arises 
partly  from  their  always  speaking  of  pictures  in  which  the 
lights  represent  solid  form.  If  they  had  instead  been  speak- 
ing of  flat  tints,  as,  for  instance,  of  the  gold  and  blue  in  this 
missal  page  (S.  7),  they  would  not  have  called  them  6  masses,5 
but  '  spaces  '  of  colour.  Now  both  for  accuracy  and  conve- 
nience' sake,  you  will  find  it  well  to  observe  this  distinction, 
and  to  call  a  simple  flat  tint  a  space  of  colour  ;  and  only  the 
representation  of  solid  or  projecting  form  a  mass. 

At  all  events,  I  mean  myself  always  to  make  this  distinction  ; 
which  I  think  you  will  see  the  use  of  by  comparing  the  missal 
page  (S  7)  with  a  piece  of  finished  painting  (Edu.  2).  The 
one  I  call  space  with  colour  ;  the  other,  mass  with  colour ;  I 
use  however  the  word  '  line '  rather  than  '  space  1  in  our  gen- 
eral scheme,  because  you  cannot  limit  a  flat  tint  but  by  a  line, 
or  the  locus  of  a  line  :  whereas  a  gradated  tint,  expressive  of 
mass,  may  be  lost  at  its  edges  in  another,  without  any  fixed 
limit ;  and  practically  is  so,  in  the  works  of  the  greatest  mas- 
ters. 

147.  You  have  thus,  in  your  hexagonal  scheme,  the  expres- 
sion of  the  universal  manner  of  advance  in  painting  :  Line 
first  ;  then  line  enclosing  flat  spaces  coloured  or  shaded  ;  then 
the  lines  vanish,  and  the  solid  forms  are  seen  within  the 
spaces.  That  is  the  universal  law  of  advance  : — 1,  line  ;  2, 
flat  space  ;  3,  massed  or  solid  space.  But,  as  you  see,  this  ad- 
vance may  be  made,  and  has  been  made,  by  two  different 
roads  ;  one  advancing  always  through  colour,  the  other  through 
light  and  shade.  And  these  two  roads  are  taken  by  two  en- 
tirely different  kinds  of  men.  The  way  by  colour  is  taken  by 
men  of  cheerful,  natural,  and  entirely  sane  disposition  in 
body  and  mind,  much  resembling,  even  at  its  strongest,  the 
temper  of  well-brought-up  children  : — too  happy  to  think 
deeply,  yet  with  powers  of  imagination  by  which  they  can  live 
other  lives  than  their  actual  ones  ;  make-believe  lives,  while 
yet  they  remain  conscious  all  the  while  that  they  are  making 
believe — therefore  entirely  sane.  They  are  also  absolutely 
contented ;  they  ask  for  no  more  light  than  is  immediately 


292 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


around  them,  and  cannot  see  anything  like  darkness,  but  only 
green  and  blue,  in  the  earth  and  sea. 

148.  The  way  by  light  and  shade  is,  on  the  contrary,  taken 
by  men  of  the  highest  powers  of  thought,  and  most  earnest 
desire  for  truth ;  they  long  for  light,  and  for  knowledge  of 
all  that  light  can  show.  But  seeking  for  light,  they  perceive 
also  darkness  ;  seeking  for  truth  and  substance,  they' find 
vanity.  They  look  for  form  in  the  earth, — for  dawn  in  the 
sky  ;  and  seeking  these,  they  find  formlessness  in  the  earth, 
and  night  in  the  sky. 

Now  remember,  in  these  introductory  lectures  I  am  put- 
ting before  you  the  roots  of  things,  which  are  strange,  and 
dark,  and  often,  it  may  seem,  unconnected  with  the  branches. 
You  may  not  at  present  think  these  metaphysical  statements 
necessary  ;  but  as  you  go  on,  you  will  find  that  having  hold 
of  the  clue  to  methods  of  work  through  their  springs  in  hu- 
man character,  you  may  perceive  unerringly  where  they  lead, 
and  what  constitutes  their  wrongness  and  lightness  ;  and 
when  we  have  the  main  principles  laid  down,  all  others  will 
develope  themselves  in  due  succession,  and  every  thing  will  be- 
come more  clearly  intelligible  to  you  in  the  end,  for  having 
been  apparently  vague  in  the  beginning.  You  know  when 
one  is  laying  the  foundation  of  a  house,  it  does  not  show  di- 
rectly where  the  rooms  are  to  be. 

149.  You  have  then  these  two  great  divisions  of  human 
mind  :  one,  content  with  the  colours  of  things,  whether  they 
are  dark  or  light ;  the  other  seeking  light  pure,  as  such,  and 
dreading  darkness  as  such.  One,  also,  content  with  the  col- 
oured aspects  and  visionary  shapes  of  things  ;  the  other  seek- 
ing their  form  and  substance.  And,  as  I  said,  the  school  of 
knowledge,  seeking  light,  perceives,  and  has  to  accejot  and 
deal  with  obscurity  ;  and  seeking  form,  it  has  to  accept  and 
deal  with  formlessness,  or  death. 

Farther,  the  school  of  colour  in  Europe,  using  the  word 
Gothic  in  its  broadest  sense,  is  essentially  Gothic-Christian  ; 
and  full  of  comfort  and  peace.  Again,  the  school  of  light  is 
essentially  Greek,  and  full  of  sorrow.  I  cannot  tell  you 
which  is  right,  or  least  wrong.    I  tell  you  only  what  I  know—* 


LIGHT. 


293 


this  vital  distinction  between  them  :  the  Gothic  or  colour 
school  is  always  cheerful,  the  Greek  always  oppressed  by  the 
shadow  of  death ;  and  the  stronger  its  masters  are,  the  closer 
that  body  of  death  grips  them.  The  strongest  whose  work  I 
can  show  you  in  recent  periods  is  Holbein  ;  next  to  him  is 
Lionardo  ;  and  then  D'rirer :  but  of  the  three  Holbein  is  the 
strongest,  and  with  his  help  I  will  put  the  two  schools  in 
their  full  character  before  you  in  a  moment. 

150.  Here  is,  first,  an  entirely  characteristic  piece  of  the 
great  colour  school.  It  is  by  Cima  of  Conegliano,  a  moun- 
taineer, like  Luini,  born  under  the  Alps  of  Friuli.  His 
Christian  name  was  John  Baptist :  he  is  here  painting  his 
name-Saint ;  the  whole  picture  full  of  peace  and  intense  faith 
and  hope,  and  deep  joy  in  light  of  sky,  and  fruit  and  flower 
and  weed  of  earth.  The  picture  was  painted  for  the  church 
of  Our  Lady  of  the  Garden  at  Venice,  La  Madonna  dell'  Orto 
(properly  Madonna  of  the  Kitchen  Garden),  and  it  is  full  of 
simple  flowers,  and  has  the  wild  strawberry  of  Cima's  native 
mountains  gleaming  through  the  grass. 

Beside  it  I  will  put  a  piece  of  the  strongest  work  of  the 
school  of  light  and  shade — strongest,  because  Holbein  was  a 
colourist  also  ;  but  he  belongs,  nevertheless,  essentially  to  the 
chiaroscuro  school.  You  know  that  his  name  is  connected,  in 
ideal  work,  chiefly  with  his  '  Dance  of  Death/  I  will  not  show 
you  any  of  the  terror  of  that ;  only  his  deepest  thought  of 
death,  his  well-known  6  Dead  Christ.'  It  will  at  once  show 
you  how  completely  the  Christian  art  of  this  school  is  op- 
pressed by  its  veracity,  and  forced  to  see  what  is  fearful,  even  in 
what  it  most  trusts.  You  may  think  I  am  showing  you  con- 
trasts merely  to  fit  my  theories.  But  there  is  Diirer  s  '  Knight 
and  Death/  his  greatest  plate  ;  and  if  I  had  Lionarclos  '  Me- 
dusa 5  here,  which  he  painted  when  only  a  boy,  you  would  have 
seen  how  he  was  held  by  the  same  chain.  And  you  cannot 
but  wonder  why,  this  being  the  melancholy  temper  of  the 
great  Greek  or  naturalistic  school,  I  should  have  called  it  the 
school  of  light.  I  call  it  so  because  it  is  through  its  intense  love 
of  light  that  the  darkness  becomes  apparent  to  it,  and  through 
its  intense  love  of  truth  and  form  that  all  mystery  becomes  at- 


294 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


tractive  to  it.  And  when,  having  learned  these  things,  it  is  joined 
to  the  school  of  colour,  you  have  the  perfect,  though  always, 
as  I  will  show  you,  pensive,  art  of  Titian  and  his  followers. 

151.  But  remember,  its  first  development,  and  all  its  final 
power,  depends  on  Greek  sorrow,  and  Greek  religion. 

The  school  of  light  is  founded  in  the  Doric  worship  of 
Apollo  and  the  Ionic  worship  of  Athena,  as  the  spirits  of  life 
in  the  light,  and  of  life  in  the  air,  opposed  each  to  their  own 
contrary  deity  of  death — Apollo  to  the  Python,  Athena  to  the 
Gorgon — Apollo  as  life  in  light,  to  the  earth  spirit  of  corrup- 
tion in  darkness,  Athena  as  life  by  motion,  to  the  Gorgon 
spirit  of  death  by  pause,  freezing,  or  turning  to  stone  :  both  of 
the  great  divinities  taking  their  glory  from  the  evil  they  have 
conquered  ;  "both  of  them,  when  angry,  taking  to  men  the 
form  of  the  evil  which  is  their  opposite — Apollo  slaying  by 
poisoned  arrow,  by  pestilence ;  Athena  by  cold,  the  black 
tegis  on  her  breast.  These  are  the  definite  and  direct 
expressions  of  the  Greek  thoughts  respecting  death  and 
life.  But  underlying  both  these,  and  far  more  mysterious, 
dreadful,  and  yet  beautiful,  there  is  the  Greek  conception 
of  spiritual  darkness  ;  of  the  anger  of  fate,  whether  fore- 
doomed or  avenging ;  the  root  and  theme  of  all  Greek 
tragedy  ;  the  anger  of  the  Erinnyes,  and  Demeter  Erinnys, 
compared  to  which  the  anger  either  of  Apollo  or  Athena  is 
temporary  and  partial : — and  also,  while  Apollo  or  Athena 
only  slay,  the  power  of  Demeter  and  the  Eumenides  is  over 
the  whole  life ;  so  that  in  the  stories  of  Bellerophon,  of  Hip- 
polytus,  of  Orestes,  of  (Edipus,  you  have  an  incomparably 
deeper  shadow  than  any  that  was  possible  to  the  thought  of 
later  ages,  when  the  hope  of  the  Resurrection  had  become 
definite.  And  if  you  keep  this  in  mind,  you  will  find  every 
name  and  legend  of  the  oldest  history  become  full  of  meaning 
to  you.  All  the  mythic  accounts  of  Greek  sculpture  begin  in 
the  legends  of  the  family  of  Tantalus.  The  main  one  is  the 
making  of  the  ivory  shoulder  of  Pelops  after  Demeter  has 
eaten  the  shoulder  of  flesh.  With  that  you  have  Broteas,  the 
brother  of  Pelops,  carving  the  first  statue  of  the  mother  of 
the  gods  ;  and  you  have  his  sister,  Niobe,  weeping  herself  to 


LIGHT. 


295 


stone  under  the  anger  of  the  deities  of  light.  Then  Pelops 
himself,  the  dark-faced,  gives  name  to  the  Peloponuesus, 
which  you  may  therefore  read  as  the  'isle  of  darkness;'  but 
its  central  city,  Sparta,  the  '  sown  city,'  is  connected  with  all 
the  ideas  of  the  earth  as  life-giving.  And  from  her  you  have 
Helen,  the  representative  of  light  in  beauty,  and  the  Fratrea 
Helense — 'lucida  sidera  ; '  and,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hills, 
the  brightness  of  Argos,  with  its  correlative  darkness  over  the 
Atreidse,  marked  to  you  by  Helios  turning  away  his  face  from 
the  feast  of  Thyestes. 

152.  Then  join  with  these  the  Northern  legends  connected 
writh  the  air.  It  does  not  matter  whether  you  take  Dorus  as 
the  son  of  Apollo  or  the  son  of  Helen  ;  he  equally  symbolizes 
the  power  of  light :  while  his  brother  iEolus,  through  all  his 
descendants,  chiefly  in  Sisyphus,  is  confused  or  associated 
with  the  real  god  of  the  winds,  and  represents  to  you  the 
power  of  the  air.  And  then,  as  this  conception  enters  into 
art,  you  have  the  myths  of  Dsedalus,  the  flight  of  Icarus,  and 
the  story  of  Phrixus  and  Helle,  giving  you  continual  associa- 
tions of  the  physical  air  and  light,  ending  in  the  power  of 
Athena  over  Corinth  as  well  as  over  Athens.  Now,  once  having 
the  clue,  you  can  work  out  the  sequels  for  yourselves  better 
than  I  can  for  you  ;  and  you  will  soon  find  even  the  earliest 
or  slightest  grotesques  of  Greek  art  become  full  of  interest  to 
you.  For  nothing  is  more  wonderful  than  the  depth  of  mean- 
ing which  nations  in  their  first  days  of  thought,  like  children, 
can  attach  to  the  rudest  symbols  ;  and  what  to  us  is  grotesque 
or  ugly,  like  a  little  child's  doll,  can  speak  to  them  the  love- 
liest things.  I  have  brought  you  to-day  a  few  more  examples 
of  early  Greek  vase  painting,  respecting  which  remember 
generally  that  its  finest  development  is  for  the  most  part  se- 
pulchral. You  have,  in  the  first  period,  always  energy  in  the 
figures,  light  in  the  sky  or  upon  the  figures  ;  *  in  the  second 
period,  while  the  conception  of  the  divine  power  remains  the 
same,  it  is  thought  of  as  in  repose,  and  the  light  is  in  the  god, 
not  in  the  sky  ;  in  the  time  of  decline,  the  divine  power  is 
gradually  disbelieved,  and  all  form  and  light  are  lost  together. 
*  See  Note  in  the  Catalogue  on  No.  201. 


296 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


With  that  period  I  wish  you  to  have  nothing  to  do.  You  shall 
not  have  a  single  example  of  it  set  before  you,  but  shall  rather 
learn  to  recognise  afterwards  what  is  base  by  its  strangeness. 
These,  which  are  to  come  early  in  the  third  group  of  your  Stand- 
ard series,  will  enough  represent  to  you  the  elements  cf  early 
and  late  conception  in  the  Greek  mind  of  the  deities  of  light. 

153.  First  (S.  204),  you  have  Apollo  ascending  from  the 
sea  ;  thought  of  as  the  physical  sunrise  :  only  a  circle  of  light 
for  his  head ;  his  chariot  horses,  seen  foreshortened,  black 
against  the  day-break,  their  feet  not  yet  risen  above  the  hori- 
zon. Underneath  is  the  painting  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  same  vase  :  Athena  as  the  morning  breeze,  and  Hermes  as 
the  morning  cloud,  flying  across  the  waves  before  the  sunrise. 
At  the  distance  I  now  hold  them  from  you,  it  is  scarcely  pos- 
sible for  you  to  see  that  they  are  figures  at  all,  so  like  are  they 
to  broken  fragments  of  flying  mist  ;  and  when  you  look  close, 
you  will  see  that  as  Apollo's  face  is  invisible  in  the  circle  of 
light,  Mercury's  is  invisible  in  the  broken  form  of  cloud  : 
but  I  can  tell  you  that  it  is  conceived  as  reverted,  looking 
back  to  Athena  ;  the  grotesque  appearance  of  feature  in  the 
front  is  the  outline  of  his  hair. 

These  two  paintings  are  excessively  rude,  and  of  the  archaic 
period  ;  the  deities  being  yet  thought  of  chiefly  as  physical 
powers  in  violent  agency. 

Underneath  these  two  are  Athena  and  Hermes,  in  the  types 
attained  about  the  time  of  Phidias  ;  but,  of  course,  rudely 
drawn *  on  the  vase,  and  still  more  rudely  in  this  print  from 
Le  Normant  and  De  Witte.  For  it  is  impossible  (as  you  will 
soon  find  if  you  try  for  yourself)  to  give  on  a  plane  surface  the 
grace  of  figures  drawn  on  one  of  solid  curvature,  and  adapted 
to  all  its  curves  :  and  among  other  minor  differences,  Athena's 
lance  is  in  the  original  nearly  twice  as  tall  as  herself,  and  has 
to  be  cut  short  to  come  into  the  print  at  all.  Still,  there  is 
enough  here  to  show  you  what  I  want  you  to  see — the  repose, 
and  entirely  realized  personality,  of  the  deities  as  conceived 
in  the  Phidian  period.  The  relation  of  the  two  deities  is,  I 
believe,  the  same  as  in  the  painting  above,  though  probably 
there  is  another  added  of  more  definite  kind.    But  the  phys- 


LIGHT. 


297 


ical  meaning  still  remains — Athena  unhelmeted,  as  the  gentle 
morning  wind,  commanding  the  cloud  Hermes  to  slow  flight. 
His  petasus  is  slung  at  his  back,  meaning  that  the  clouds  are 
not  yet  opened  or  expanded  in  the  sky. 

154.  Next  (S.  205),  you  have  Athena,  again  unhelmeted 
and  crowned  with  leaves,  walking  between  two  nymphs,  who 
are  crowned  also  with  leaves  ;  and  all  the  three  hold  flowers 
in  their  hands,  and  there  is  a  fawn  walking  at  Athena's  feet. 

This  is  still  Athena  as  the  morning  air,  but  upon  the  earth 
instead  of  in  the  sky,  with  the  nymphs  of  the  dew  beside  her ; 
the  flowers  and  leaves  opening  as  they  breathe  upon  them. 
Note  the  white  gleam  of  light  on  the  fawn's  breast ;  and 
compare  it  with  the  next  following  examples  : — (underneath 
this  one  is  the  contest  of  Athena  and  Poseidon,  which  does 
not  bear  on  our  present  subject). 

Next  (S.  206),  Artemis  as  the  moon  of  morning,  walking 
low  on  the  hills,  and  singing  to  her  lyre  ;  the  fawn  beside  her, 
with  the  gleam  of  light  of  sunrise  on  its  ear  and  breast. 
Those  of  you  who  are  often  out  in  the  dawn-time  know  that 
there  is  no  moon  so  glorious  as  that  gleaming  crescent  as- 
cending before  the  sun,  though  in  its  wane. 

Underneath,  Artemis  and  Apollo,  of  Phidian  time. 

Next  (S.  207),  Apollo  walking  on  the  earth,  god  of  the 
morning,  singing  to  his  lyre  ;  the  fawn  beside  him,  again  with 
the  gleam  of  light  on  its  breast.  And  underneath,  Apollo, 
crossing  the  sea  to  Delphi,  of  the  Phidian  time. 

155.  Now  you  cannot  but  be  struck  in  these  three  examples 
with  the  similarity  of  action  in  Athena,  Apollo,  and  Artemis, 
drawn  as  deities  of  the  morning  ;  and  with  the  association  in 
every  case  of  the  fawn  with  them.  It  has  been  said  (I  will 
not  interrupt  you  with  authorities)  that  the  fawn  belongs  to 
Apollo  and  Diana  because  stags  are  sensitive  to  music  ;  (are 
they  ?).  But  you  see  the  fawn  is  here  with  Athena  of  the  dew, 
though  she  has  no  lyre  ;  and  I  have  myself  no  doubt  that  in 
this  particular  relation  to  the  gods  of  morning  it  always  stands 
as  the  symbol  of  wavering  and  glancing  motion  on  the  ground, 
as  well  as  of  the  light  and  shadow  through  the  leaves,  cheq- 
uering the  ground  as  the  fawn  is  dappled.  Similarly  the  spota 


298 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


on  the  nebris  of  Dionysus,  thought  of  sometimes  as  stara 
(airb  rrjs  rwu  aarpuv  Troi/aA/'ac,  Diodorus,  II.  I),  as  well  as  those 
of  his  panthers,  and  the  cloudings  of  the  tortoise-shell  of 
Hermes,  are  all  significant  of  this  light  of  the  sky  broken  by 
cloud-shadow. 

156.  You  observe  also  that  in  all  the  three  examples  the 
fawn  has  light  on  its  ears,  and  face,  as  well  as  its  breast.  In 
the  earliest  Greek  drawings  of  animals,  bars  of  white  are 
used  as  one  means  of  detaching  the  figures  from  the  ground  ; 
ordinarily  on  the  under  side  of  them,  marking  the  lighter 
colour  of  the  hair  in  wild  animals.  But  the  placing  of  this 
bar  of  white,  or  the  direction  of  the  face  in  deities  of  light, 
(the  faces  and  flesh  of  women  being  always  represented  as 
white),  may  become  expressive  of  the  direction  of  the  light, 
when  that  direction  is  important.  Thus  we  are  enabled  at 
once  to  read  the  intention  of  this  Greek  symbol  of  the  course 
of  a  day  (in  the  centre-piece  of  S.  208,  which  gives  you  the 
types  of  Hermes).  At  the  top  you  have  an  archaic  representa- 
tion of  Hermes  stealing  Io  from  Argus.  Argus  is  here  the 
Night  ;  his  grotesque  features  monstrous ;  his  hair  over- 
shadowing his  shoulders  ;  Hermes  on  tiptoe,  stealing  upon 
him,  and  taking  the  cord  which  is  fastened  to  the  horn  of  Io 
out  of  his  hand  without  his  feeling  it.  Then,  underneath, 
you  have  the  course  of  an  entire  day.  Apollo  first,  on  the 
left,  dark,  entering  his  chariot,  the  sun  not  yet  risen.  In 
front  of  him  Artemis,  as  the  moon,  ascending  before  him, 
playing  on  her  lyre,  and  looking  back  to  the  sun.  In  the  cen- 
tre, behind  the  horses,  Hermes,  as  the  cumulus  cloud  at  mid- 
da}^  wearing  his  petasus  heightened  to  a  cone,  and  holding  a 
flower  in  his  right  hand  ;  indicating  the  nourishment  of  the 
flowers  by  the  rain  from  the  heat-cloud.  Finally,  on  the 
right,  Latona,  going  down  as  the  evening,  lighted  from  the 
right  by  the  sun,  now  sunk  ;  and  with  her  feet  reverted,  sig- 
nifying the  unwillingness  of  the  departing  day. 

Finally,  underneath,  you  have  Hermes  of  the  Phidian  period, 
as  the  floating  cumulus  cloud,  almost  shapeless  (as  }^ou  see 
him  at  this  distance)  ;  with  the  tortoise-shell  lyre  in  his  hand, 
barred  with  black,  and  a  fleece  of  white  cloud,  not  level,  but 


LIGHT. 


299 


oblique,  under  his  feet.  (Compare  the  6  SiA  rwv  kolXow — 7rA.ayiai/ 
and  the  relations  of  the  '  alylSos  fjvtoxos  'A#ara,'  with  the  clouds 
as  the  moon's  messengers,  in  Aristophanes  ;  and  note  of  Her- 
mes generally,  that  you  never  find  him  flying  as  a  Victory  flies, 
but  always,  if  moving  fast  at  all,  clambering  along,  as  it  were, 
as  a  cloud  gathers  and  heaps  itself  :  the  Gorgons  stretch  and 
stride  in  their  flight,  half  kneeling,  for  the  same  reason,  run- 
ning or  gliding  shapelessly  along  in  this  stealthy  way.) 

157.  And  now  take  this  last  illustration,  of  a  very  different 
kind.  Here  is  an  effect  of  morning  light  by  Turner  (S.  301), 
on  the  rocks  of  Otley-hill,  near  Leeds,  drawn  long  ago,  when 
Apollo,  and  Artemis,  and  Athena,  still  sometimes  were  seen, 
and  felt,  even  near  Leeds.  The  original  drawing  is  one  of 
the  great  Farnley  series,  and  entirely  beautiful.  I  have  shown, 
in  the  last  volume  of  'Modern  Painters/  how  well  Turner 
knew  the  meaning  of  Greek  legends  : — he  was  not  thinking  of 
them,  however,  when  he  made  this  design  ;  but,  unintention- 
ally, has  given  us  the  very  effect  of  morning  light  we  want : 
the  glittering  of  the  sunshine  on  dewy  grass,  half  dark  ;  and 
the  narrow  gleam  of  it  on  the  sides  and  head  of  the  stag  and 
hind. 

158.  These  few  instances  will  be  enough  to  show  you  how 
we  may  read  in  early  art  of  the  Greeks  their  strong  impres- 
sions of  the  power  of  light.  You  will  find  the  subject  entered 
into  at  somewhat  greater  length  in  my  '  Queen  of  the  Air ; ' 
and  if  you  will  look  at  the  beginning  of  the  7th  book  of  Plato's 
'  Polity/  and  read  carefully  the  passages  in  the  context  re- 
specting the  sun  and  intellectual  sight,  you  will  see  how  in- 
timately this  physical  love  of  light  was  connected  with  their 
philosophy,  in  its  search,  as  blind  and  captive,  for  better 
knowledge.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  define  for  you  to-day  the 
more  complex  but  much  shallower  forms  which  this  love  of 
light,  and  the  philosophy  that  accompanies  it,  take  in  the 
mediaeval  mind  ;  only  remember  that  in  future,  when  I  briefly 
speak  of  the  Greek  school  of  art  with  reference  to  questions 
of  delineation,  I  mean  the  entire  range  of  the  schools,  from 
Homer's  days  to  our  own,  which  concern  themselves  with  the 
representation  of  light,  and  the  effects  it  produces  on  material 


300 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


form — beginning  practically  for  us  with  these  Greek  vase  paint- 
ings, and  closing  practically  for  us  with  Turner's  sunset  on 
the  Teraeraire  ;  being  throughout  a  school  of  captivity  and 
sadness,  but  of  intense  power ;  and  which  in  its  technical 
method  of  shadow  on  material  form,  as  well  as  in  its  essential 
temper,  is  centrally  represented  to  you  by  Diirer's  two  great 
engravings  of  the  '  Melencolia  ■  and  the  '  Knight  and  Death.' 
On  the  other  hand,  when  I  briefly  speak  to  you  of  the  Gothic 
school,  with  reference  to  delineation,  I  mean  the  entire  and 
much  more  extensive  range  of  schools  extending  from  the 
earliest  art  in  Central  Asia  and  Egypt  down  to  our  own  day 
in  India  and  China  : — schools  which  have  been  content  to  ob- 
tain beautiful  harmonies  of  colour  without  any  representation 
of  light ;  and  which  have,  many  of  them,  rested  in  such  im- 
perfect expressions  of  form  as  could  be  so  obtained  ;  schools 
usually  in  some  measure  childish,  or  restricted  in  intellect, 
and  similarly  childish  or  restricted  in  their  philosophies  or 
faiths :  but  contented  in  the  restriction  ;  and  in  the  more 
powerful  races,  capable  of  advance  to  nobler  development 
than  the  Greek  schools,  though  the  consummate  art  of  Eu- 
rope has  only  been  accomplished  by  the  union  of  both.  How 
that  union  was  effected,  I  will  endeavour  to  show  you  in  my 
next  lecture  ;  to-day  I  shall  take  note  only  of  the  points  bear- 
ing on  our  immediate  practice. 

159.  A  certain  number  of  you,  by  faculty  and  natural  dis- 
position,— and  all,  so  far  as  you  are  interested  in  modern  art, 
— will  necessarily  have  to  put  yourselves  under  the  discipline 
of  the  Greek  or  chiaroscuro  school,  which  is  directed  pri- 
marily to  the  attainment  of  the  power  of  representing  form 
by  pure  contrast  of  light  and  shade.  I  say,  the  '  discipline  ' 
of  the  Greek  school,  both  because,  followed  faithfully,  it  is  in- 
deed a  severe  one,  and  because  to  follow  it  at  all  is,  for  persons 
fond  of  colour,  often  a  course  of  painful  self-denial,  from  which 
young  students  are  eager  to  escape.  And  yet,  when  the  laws 
of  both  schools  are  rightly  obeyed,  the  most  perfect  disci 
pline  is  that  of  the  colourist ;  for  they  see  and  draw  everything, 
while  the  chiaroscurists  must  leave  much  indeterminate  in 
mystery,  or  invisible  in  gloom  :  and  there  are  therefore  many 


LIGHT. 


301 


licentious  and  vulgar  forms  of  art  connected  With  the  chiaro- 
scuro school,  both  in  painting  and  etching,  which  have  no 
parallel  among  the  colourists.  But  both  schools,  rightly  fol- 
lowed, require  first  of  all  the  absolute  accuracy  of  delineation. 
This  you.  need  not  hope  to  escape.  Whether  you  fill  your 
spaces  with  colours,  or  with  shadows,  they  must  equally  be 
of  the  true  outline  and  in  true  gradations.  I  have  been 
thirty  years  telling  modern  students  of  art  this  in  vain.  I 
mean  to  say  it  to  you  only  once,  for  the  statement  is  too  im- 
portant to  be  weakened  by  repetition. 

Without  perfect  delineation  of  form  and  perfect  gradation 
of  space,  neither  noble  colour  is  possible,  nor  noble  light. 

160.  It  may  make  this  more  believable  to  you  if  I  put  be- 
side each  other  a  piece  of  detail  from  each  school.  I  gave  you 
the  St.  John  of  Cima  da  Conegliano  for  a  type  of  the  colour 
school.  Here  is  one  of  the  sprays  of  oak  which  rise  against 
the  sky  of  it  in  the  distance,  enlarged  to  about  its  real  size 
(Edu.  12).  I  hope  to  draw  it  better  for  you  at  Venice  ;  but 
this  will  show  you  with  what  perfect  care  the  colourist  has 
followed  the  outline  of  every  leaf  in  the  sky.  Beside  it,  I 
put  a  chiaroscurist  drawing  (at  least,  a  photograph  of  one), 
Diirer's,  from  nature,  of  the  common  wild  wall-cabbage  (Edu. 
32).  It  is  the  most  perfect  piece  of  delineation  by  flat  tint  I 
have  ever  seen,  in  its  mastery  of  the  perspective  of  every  leaf, 
and  its  attainment  almost  of  the  bloom  of  texture,  merely  by 
its  exquisitely  tender  and  decisive  laying  of  the  colour. 
These  two  examples  ought,  I  think,  to  satisfy  you  as  to  the 
precision  of  outline  of  both  schools,  and  the  power  of  ex- 
pression which  may  be  obtained  by  flat  tints  laid  within  such 
outline. 

161.  Next,  here  are  two  examples  of  the  gradated  shading 
expressive  of  the  forms  within  the  outline,  by  two  masters  of 
the  chiaroscuro  school.  The  first  (S.  12)  shows  you  Leonardo's 
method  of  work,  both  with  chalk  and  the  silver  point.  The 
second  (S.  302),  Turner's  work  in  mezzotint ;  both  masters 
doing  their  best.  Observe  that  this  plate  of  Turner's,  which 
he  worked  on  so  long  that  it  was  never  published,  is  of  a  sub- 
ject peculiarly  depending  on  effects  of  mystery  and  conceal* 


302 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


rnent,  the  fall  of  the  Reuss  under  the  Devil's  Bridge  on  the 
St.  Gothard  ;  (the  old  bridge  ;  you  may  still  see  it  under  the 
existing  one,  which  was  built  since  Turner's  drawing  was 
made).  If  ever  outline  could  be  dispensed  with,  you  would 
think  it  might  be  so  in  this  confusion  of  cloud,  foam,  and 
darkness.  But  here  is  Turner's  own  etching  on  the  plate, 
(Edu.  35  F),  made  under  the  mezzotint  ;  and  of  all  the 
studies  of  rock  outline  made  by  his  hand,  it  is  the  most  de- 
cisive and  quietly  complete. 

162.  Again  ;  in  the  Lionardo  sketches,  many  parts  are  lost 
in  obscurity,  or  are  left  intentionally  uncertain  and  mystery 
ous,  even  in  the  light ;  and  you  might  at  first  imagine  some 
permission  of  escape  had  been  here  given  you  from  the 
terrible  law  of  delineation.  But  the  slightest  attempts  to 
copy  them  will  show  you  that  the  terminal  lines  are  inimitably 
subtle,  unaccusably  true,  and  filled  by  gradations  of  shade  so 
determined  and  measured,  that  the  addition  of  a  grain  of  the 
lead  or  chalk  as  large  as  the  filament  of  a  moth's  wing,  would 
make  an  appreciable  difference  in  them. 

This  is  grievous,  you  think,  and  hopeless.  No,  it  is  de- 
lightful and  full  of  hope  :  delightful,  to  see  what  marvellous 
things  can  be  done  by  men  ;  and  full  of  hope,  if  your  hope  is 
the  right  one,  of  being  one  day  able  to  rejoice  more  in  what 
others  are,  than  in  what  you  are  yourself,  and  more  in  the 
strength  that  is  for  ever  above  you,  than  in  that  you  can  ever 
attain. 

163.  But  you  can  attain  much,  if  you  will  work  reverently 
and  patiently,  and  hope  for  no  success  through  ill-regulated 
effort.  It  is,  however,  most  assuredly  at  this  point  of  your 
study  that  the  full  strain  on  your  patience  will  begin.  The 
exercises  in  line-drawing  and  flat  laying  of  colour  are  irksome  ; 
but  they  are  definite,  and  within  certain  limits,  sure  to  be 
successful  if  practised  with  moderate  care.  But  the  expres- 
sion of  form  by  shadow  requires  more  subtle  patience,  and 
involves  the  necessity  of  frequent  and  mortifying  failure,  not 
to  speak  of  the  self-denial  which  I  said  was  needful  in  persons 
fond  of  colour,  to  draw  in  mere  light  and  shade.  If,  indeed, 
you  were  going  to  be  artists,  or  could  give  any  great  length 


LIGHT. 


of  time  to  study,  it  might  be  possible  for  you  to  learn  wholly 
in  the  Venetian  school,  and  to  reach  form  through  colour.  But 
without  the  most  intense  application  this  is  not  possible  ;  and 
practically,  it  will  be  necessary  for  you,  as  soon  as  you  have 
gained  the  power  of  outlining  accurately,  and  of  laying  flat  col- 
our, to  leam  to  express  solid  form  as  shown  by  light  and  shade 
only.  And  there  is  this  great  advantage  in  doing  so,  that  many 
forms  are  more  or  less  disguised  by  colour,  and  that  we  can 
only  represent  them  completely  to  others,  or  rapidly  and 
easily  record  them  for  ourselves,  by  the  use  of  shade  alone. 
A  single  iu stance  will  show  you  what  I  mean.  Perhaps  there 
are  few  flowers  of  which  the  impression  on  the  eye  is  more 
definitely  of  flat  colour  than  the  scarlet  geranium.  But  you 
would  find,  if  you  were  to  try  to  paint  it, — first,  that  no  pig- 
ment could  approach  the  beauty  of  its  scarlet ;  and  secondly, 
that  the  brightness  of  the  hue  dazzled  the  eye,  and  prevented 
its  following  the  real  arrangement  of  the  cluster  of  flowers. 
I  have  drawn  for  you  here  (at  least  this  is  a  mezzotint  from 
my  drawing),  a  single  cluster  of  the  scarlet  geranium,  in  mere 
light  and  shade  (Edu.  32  B.),  and  I  think  you  will  feel  that 
its  domed  form,  and  the  flat  lying  of  the  petals  one  over  the 
other,  in  the  vaulted  roof  of  it,  can  be  seen  better  thus  than 
if  they  had  been  painted  scarlet. 

164.  Also  this  study  will  be  useful  to  you,  in  showing 
how  entirely  effects  of  light  depend  on  delineation,  and  gra- 
dation of  spaces,  and  not  on  methods  of  shading.  And  this 
is  the  second  great  practical  matter  I  want  you  to  remember 
to-day.  All  effects  of  light  and  shade  depend  not  on  the 
method  or  execution  of  shadows,  but  on  their  rightness  of 
place,  form,  and  depth.  There  is  indeed  a  loveliness  of  exe- 
cution added  to  the  rightness,  by  the  great  masters,  but  you 
cannot  obtain  that  till  you  become  one.  Shadow  cannot  be 
laid  thoroughly  well,  any  more  than  lines  can  be  drawn 
steadily,  but  by  a  long  practised  hand,  and  the  attempts  to 
imitate  the  shading  of  fine  draughtsmen,  by  dotting  and 
hatching,  are  just  as  ridiculous  as  it  would  be  to  endeavour 
to  imitate  their  instantaneous  lines  by  a  series  of  re-touchings. 
You  will  often  indeed  see  in  Leonardo's  work,  and  in  Michael 


304 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


Angelo's,  shadow  wrought  laboriously  to  an  extreme  of  fine 
ness  ;  but  when  you  look  into  it,  you  will  find  that  they  have 
always  been  drawing  more  and  more  form  within  the  space, 
and  never  finishing  for  the  sake  of  added  texture,  but  of 
added  fact.  And  all  those  effects  of  transparency  and  reflected 
light,  aimed  at  in  common  chalk  drawings,  are  wholly  spu- 
rious. For  since,  as  I  told  you,  all  lights  are  shades  com- 
pared to  higher  lights,  and  lights  only  as  compared  to 
lower  ones,  it  follows  that  there  can  be  no  difference  in  their 
quality  as  such ;  but  that  light  is  opaque  when  it  expresses 
substance,  and  transparent  when  it  expresses  space  ;  and 
shade  is  also  opaque  when  it  expresses  substance,  and  trans- 
parent when  it  expresses  space.  But  it  is  not,  even  then, 
transparent  in  the  common  sense  of  that  word  ;  nor  is  its  ap- 
pearance to  be  obtained  by  dotting  or  cross  hatching,  but  by 
touches  so  tender  as  to  look  like  mist.  And  now  we  find  the 
use  of  having  Lionardo  for  our  guide.  He  is  supreme  in  all 
questions  of  execution,  and  in  his  28th  chapter,  you  will  find 
that  shadows  are  to  be  6  dolce  e  sfumose/  to  be  tender,  and 
look  as  if  they  were  exhaled,  or  breathed  on  the  paper.  Then, 
look  at  any  of  Michael  Angelo's  finished  drawings,  or  of  Cor- 
reggio's  sketches,  and  you  will  see  that  the  true  nurse  of 
light  is  in  art,  as  in  nature,  the  cloud  ;  a  misty  and  tender 
darkness,  made  lovely  by  gradation. 

165.  And  how  absolutely  independent  it  is  of  material  or 
method  of  production,  how  absolutely  dependent  on  right- 
ness  of  place  and  depth, — there  are  now  before  you  instances 
enough  to  prove.  Here  is  Diirer's  work  in  flat  colour,  repre- 
sented by  the  photograph,  in  its  smoky  brown  ;  Turner's,  in 
washed  sepia,  and  in  mezzotint ;  Lionardo's,  in  pencil  and  in 
chalk  ;  on  the  screen  in  front  of  you  a  large  study  in  charcoal. 
In  every  one  of  these  drawings,  the  material  of  shadow  is  ab- 
solutely opaque.  But  photograph-stain,  chalk,  lead,  ink,  or 
charcoal, — every  one  of  them,  laid  by  the  master's  hand,  be- 
comes full  of  light  by  gradation  only.  Here  is  a  moonlight 
(Edu.  31  B.),  in  which  you  would  think  the  moon  shone 
through  every  cloud  ;  yet  the  clouds  are  mere  single  dashes 
of  sepia,  imitated  by  the  brown  stain  of  a  photograph  ;  simi* 


LIGHT. 


larly,  in  these  plates  from  the  Liber  Studiorum  the  white 
paper  becomes  transparent  or  opaque,  exactly  as  the  master 
chooses.  Here,  on  the  granite  rock  of  the  St.  Gothard  (S. 
302),  is  white  paper  made  opaque,  every  light  represents  solid 
bosses  of  rock,  or  balls  of  foam.  But  in  this  study  of  twilight 
(S.  303),  the  same  white  paper  (coarse  old  stuff  it  is,  too  !)  is 
made  as  transparent  as  crystal,  and  every  fragment  of  it  repre- 
sents clear  and  far  away  light  in  the  sky  of  evening  in  Italy. 
From  which  the  practical  conclusion  for  you  is,  that  you  are 
never  to  trouble  yourselves  with  any  questions  as  to  the  means 
of  shade  or  light,  but  only  with  the  right  government  of  the 
means  at  your  disposal.  And  it  is  a  most  grave  error  in  the 
system  of  many  of  our  public  drawing-schools  that  the  stu- 
dents are  permitted  to  spend  weeks  of  labour  in  giving  at- 
tractive appearance,  by  delicacy  of  texture,  to  chiaroscuro  draw- 
ings in  which  every  form  is  false,  and  every  relation  of  depth 
untrue.  A  most  unhappy  form  of  error  ;  for  it  not  only  delays, 
and  often  wholly  arrests,  their  advance  in  their  own  art ;  but  it 
prevents  what  ought  to  take  place  co-relatively  with  their  execu- 
tive practice,  the  formation  of  their  taste  by  the  accurate  study 
of  the  models  from  which  they  draw.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that 
you  have  more  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  large  drawing  of  the 
arch  of  Bourges,  behind  me,  (Ref.  1),  than  at  common  sketches 
of  sculpture.  The  reason  you  like  it  is,  that  the  whole  effort  of 
the  workman  lias  been  to  show  you,  not  his  own  skill  in  shad- 
ing, but  the  play  of  the  light  on  the  surfaces  of  the  leaves, 
which  is  lovely,  because  the  sculpture  itself  is  first-rate.  And 
I  must  so  far  anticipate  what  we  shall  discover  when  we  come 
to  the  subject  of  sculpture,  as  to  tell  you  the  two  main  prin- 
ciples of  good  sculpture :  first,  that  its  masters  think  before 
all  other  matters  of  the  right  placing  of  masses  ;  secondly,  that 
they  give  life  by  flexure  of  surface,  not  by  quantity  of  detail ; 
for  sculpture  is  indeed  only  light  and  shade  drawing  in  stone. 

166.  Much  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  teach  on  this  subject 
has  been  gravely  misunderstood,  by  both  young  painters  and 
sculptors,  especially  by  the  latter.  Because  I  am  always  urg- 
ing them  to  imitate  organic  forms,  they  think  if  they  carve 
quantities  of  flowers  and  leaves,  and  copy  them  from  the  life, 


306 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


they  have  done  all  that  is  needed.  But  the  difficulty  is  not  to 
carve  quantities  of  leaves.  Anybody  can  do  that.  The  diffi- 
culty is,  never  anywhere  to  have  an  unnecessary  leaf.  Over 
the  arch  on  the  right,  you  see  there  is  a  cluster  of  seven,  with 
their  short  stalks  springing  from  a  thick  stem.  Now,  you 
could  not  turn  one  of  those  leaves  a  hairs-breadth  out  of  its 
place,  nor  thicken  one  of  their  stems,  nor  alter  the  angle  at 
which  each  slips  over  the  next  one,  without  spoiling  the  whole, 
as  much  as  you  would  a  piece  of  melody  by  missing  a  note. 
That  is  disposition  of  masses.  Again,  in  the  group  on  the 
left,  while  the  placing  of  every  leaf  is  just  as  skilful,  they  are 
made  more  interesting  yet  by  the  lovely  undulation  of  their 
surfaces,  so  that  not  one  of  them  is  in  equal  light  with  an- 
other. And  that  is  so  in  all  good  sculpture,  without  exception. 
From  the  Elgin  marbles  down  to  the  lightest  tendril  that  curls 
round  a  capital  in  the  thirteenth  century,  every  piece  of  stone 
that  has  been  touched  by  the  hand  of  a  master,  becomes  soft 
with  under-life,  not  resembling  nature  merely  in  skin-texture, 
nor  in  fibres  of  leaf,  or  veins  of  flesh ;  but  in  the  broad,  tender, 
unspeakably  subtle  undulation  of  its  organic  form. 

167.  Returning  then  to  the  question  of  our  own  practice,  I 
believe  that  all  difficulties  in  method  will  vanish,  if  only  you 
cultivate  with  care  enough  the  habit  of  accurate  observation, 
and  if  you  think  only  of  making  your  light  and  shade  true, 
whether  it  be  delicate  or  not.  But  there  are  three  divisions 
or  degrees  of  truth  to  be  sought  for,  in  light  and  shade,  by 
three  several  modes  of  study,  which  I  must  ask  you  to  dis- 
tinguish carefully. 

I.  When  objects  are  lighted  by  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun, 
or  by  direct  light  entering  from  a  window,  one  side  of  them 
is  of  course  in  light,  the  other  in  shade,  and  the  forms  in  the 
mass  are  exhibited  systematically  by  the  force  of  the  rays  fall- 
ing on  it ;  (those  having  most  power  of  illumination  wThich 
strike  most  vertically) ;  and  note  that  there  is,  therefore,  to 
every  solid  curvature  of  surface,  a  necessarily  proportioned 
gradation  of  light,  the  gradation  on  a  parabolic  solid  being 
different  from  the  gradation  on  an  elliptical  or  spherical  one. 
Nov  when  your  purpose  is  to  represent  and  learn  the  anat- 


LIGHT. 


307 


omy,  or  otherwise  characteristic  forms,  of  any  object,  it  m 
best  to  place  it  in  this  kind  of  direct  light,  and  to  draw  it  as 
it  is  seen  when  we  look  at  it  in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to 
that  of  the  ray.  This  is  the  ordinary  academical  way  of  study- 
ing form.  Lionardo  seldom  practises  any  other  in  his  real 
work,  though  he  directs  many  others  in  his  treatise* 

168.  The  great  importance  of  anatomical  knowledge  to  the 
painters  of  the  18th  century  rendered  this  method  of  study 
very  frequent  with  them  ;  it  almost  wholly  regulated  their 
schools  of  engraving,  and  has  been  the  most  frequent  system 
of  drawing  in  art-schools  since  (to  the  very  inexpedient  ex- 
clusion of  others).  When  you  study  objects  in  this  way, — 
and  it  will  indeed  be  well  to  do  so  often,  though  not  exclu- 
sively,— observe  always  one  main  principle.  Divide  the  light 
from  the  darkness  frankly  at  first :  all  over  the  subject  let 
there  be  no  doubt  which  is  which.  Separate  them  one  from 
the  other  as  they  are  separated  in  the  moon,  or  on  the  world 
itself,  in  day  and  night  Then  gradate  your  lights  with  the 
utmost  subtilty  possible  to  you  ;  but  let  your  shadows  alone, 
until  near  the  termination  of  the  drawing :  then  put  quickly 
into  them  what  farther  energy  they  need,  thus  gaining  the  re- 
flected lights  out  of  their  original  flat  gloom  ;  but  generally 
not  looking  much  for  reflected  lights.  Nearly  all  young  stu- 
dents (and  too  many  advanced  masters)  exaggerate  them.  It 
is  good  to  see  a  drawing  come  out  of  its  ground  like  a  vision 
of  light  only  ;  the  shadows  lost,  or  disregarded  in  the  vague 
of  space.  In  vulgar  chiaroscuro  the  shades  are  so  full  of  re- 
flection that  they  look  as  if  some  one  had  been  walking  round 
the  object  with  a  candle,  and  the  student,  by  that  help,  peer- 
ing into  its  crannies. 

169.  IL  But,  in  the  reality  of  nature,  very  few  objects  are 
seen  in  this  accurately  lateral  manner,  or  lighted  by  uncon- 
fused  direct  rays.  Some  are  all  in  shadow,  some  all  in  light, 
some  near,  and  vigorously  defined  ;  others  dim  and  faint  in 
aerial  distance.  The  study  of  these  various  effects  and  forces 
of  light,  which  we  may  call  aerial  chiaroscuro,  is  a  far  more 
subtle  one  than  that  of  the  rays  exhibiting  organic  form 
(which  for  distinction's  sake  we  may  call  '  formal '  chiaro* 


308 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


scuro),  since  the  degrees  of  light  from  the  sun  itself  to  the 
blackness  of  night,  are  far  beyond  any  literal  imitation.  In 
order  to  produce  a  mental  impression  of  the  facts,  two  dis 
tinct  methods  may  be  followed  ; — the  first,  to  shade  down- 
wards from  the  lights,  making  everything  darker  in  due  pro- 
portion, until  the  scale  of  our  power  being  ended,  the  mass  of 
the  picture  is  lost  in  shade.  The  second,  to  assume  the  points 
of  extreme  darkness  for  a  basis,  and  to  light  everything  above 
these  in  due  proportion,  till  the  mass  of  the  picture  is  lost  in 
light. 

170.  Thus,  in  Turner's  sepia  drawing  'Isis'  (Edu.  31),  he 
begins  with  the  extreme  light  in  the  sky,  and  shades  down 
from  that  till  he  is  forced  to  represent  the  near  trees  and  pool 
as  one  mass  of  blackness.  In  his  drawing  of  the  Greta  (S.  2), 
he  begins  with  the  dark  brown  shadow  of  the  bank  on  the  left, 
and  illuminates  up  from  that,  till,  in  his  distance,  trees,  hills, 
sky,  and  clouds,  are  all  lost  in  broad  light,  so  that  you  can 
hardly  see  the  distinction  between  hills  and  sky.  The  second 
of  these  methods  is  in  general  the  best  for  colour,  though 
great  painters  unite  both  in  their  practice,  according  to  the 
character  of  their  subject.  The  first  method  is  never  pursued 
in  colour  but  by  inferior  painters.  It  is,  nevertheless,  of  great 
importance  to  make  studies  of  chiaroscuro  in  this  first  manner 
for  some  time,  as  a  preparation  for  colouring ;  and  this  for 
many  reasons,  which  it  would  take  too  long  to  state  now.  I 
shall  expect  you  to  have  confidence  in  me  when  I  assure  you 
of  the  necessity  of  this  study,  and  ask  you  to  make  good  use 
of  the  examples  from  the  Liber  Studiorum  which  I  have  placed 
in  your  Educational  series. 

171.  III.  Whether  in  formal  or  aerial  chiaroscuro,  it  is  op- 
tional with  the  student  to  make  the  local  colour  of  objects  a 
part  of  his  shadow,  or  to  consider  the  high  lights  of  every 
colour  as  white.  For  instance,  a  chiaroscurist  of  Leonardo's 
school,  drawing  a  leopard,  would  take  no  notice  whatever  of 
the  spots,  but  only  give  the  shadows  which  expressed  the  an- 
atomy. And  it  is  indeed  necessary  to  be  able  to  do  this,  and 
to  make  drawings  of  the  forms  of  things  as  if  they  were  sculpt* 
ured,  and  had  no  colour.    But  in  general,  and  more  espe- 


LIGHT. 


309 


cially  m  the  practice  which  is  to  guide  you  to  colour,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  regard  the  local  colour  as  part  of  the  general  dark  and 
light  to  be  imitated  ;  and,  as  I  told  you  at  first,  to  consider 
all  nature  merely  as  a  mosaic  of  different  colours,  to  be  imi- 
tated one  by  one  in  simplicity.  But  good  artists  vary  their 
methods  according  to  their  subject  and  material.  In  general, 
Diirer  takes  little  account  of  local  colour  ;  but  in  woodcuts  of 
armorial  bearings  (one  with  peacock's  feathers  I  shall  get  for 
you  some  day)  takes  great  delight  in  it ;  while  one  of  the  chief 
merits  of  Bewick  is  the  ease  and  vigour  with  which  he  uses 
his  black  and  white  for  the  colours  of  plumes.  Also,  every 
great  artist  looks  for,  and  expresses,  that  character  of  his  sub- 
ject which  is  best  to  be  rendered  by  the  instrument  in  his 
hand,  and  the  material  he  works  on.  Give  Velasquez  or  Vero- 
nese a  leopard  to  paint,  the  first  thing  they  think  of  will  be  its 
spots ;  give  it  to  Diirer  to  engrave,  and  he  will  set  himself  at 
the  fur  and  whiskers ;  give  it  a  Greek  to  carve,  and  he  will 
only  think  of  its  jaws  and  limbs ;  each  doing  what  is  abso- 
lutely best  with  the  means  at  his  disposal. 

172.  The  details  of  practice  in  these  various  methods  I 
will  endeavour  to  explain  to  you  by  distinct  examples  in  your 
Educational  series,  as  we  proceed  in  our  work  ;  for  the  pres- 
ent, let  me,  in  closing,  recommend  to  you  once  more  with 
great  earnestness  the  patient  endeavour  to  render  the  chiaro- 
scuro of  landscape  in  the  manner  of  the  Liber  Studiorum ; 
and  this  the  rather,  because  you  might  easily  suppose  that 
the  facility  of  obtaining  photographs  which  render  such 
effects,  as  it  seems,  with  absolute  truth  and  with  unapproach- 
able subtlety,  superseded  the  necessity  of  study,  and  the  use 
of  sketching.  Let  me  assure  you,  once  for  all,  that  photo- 
graphs supersede  no  single  quality  nor  use  of  fine  art,  and 
have  so  much  in  common  with  Nature,  that  they  even  share 
her  temper  of  parsimony,  and  will  themselves  give  you  noth- 
ing valuable  that  you  do  not  work  for.  They  supersede  no 
good  art,  for  the  definition  of  art  is  £  human  labour  regulated 
by  human  design/  and  this  design,  or  evidence  of  active  in- 
tellect in  choice  and  arrangement,  is  the  essential  part  of  the 
work  ;  which,  so  long  as  you  cannot  perceive,  you  perceive 


310 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


no  art  whatsoever ;  which,  when  once  you  do  perceive,  you 
will  perceive  also  to  be  replaceable  by  no  mechanism.  But, 
farther,  photographs  will  give  you  nothing  you  do  not  work 
for.  They  are  invaluable  for  record  of  some  kinds  of  facts, 
and  for  giving  transcripts  of  drawings  by  great  masters  ;  but 
neither  in  the  photographed  scene,  nor  photographed  draw- 
ing, will  you  see  any  true  good,  more  than  in  the  things 
themselves,  until  you  have  given  the  appointed  price  in  your 
own  attention  and  toil.  And  when  once  you  have  paid  this 
price,  you  will  not  care  for  photographs  of  landscape.  They 
are  not  true,  though  they  seem  so.  They  are  merely  spoiled 
nature.  If  it  is  not  human  design  you  are  looking  for,  there 
is  more  beauty  in  the  next  wayside  bank  than  in  all  the  sun- 
blackened  paper  you  could  collect  in  a  lifetime.  Go  and  look 
at  the  real  landscape,  and  take  care  of  it ;  do  not  think  you 
can  get  the  good  of  it  in  a  black  stain  portable  in  a  folio. 
But  if  you  care  for  human  thought  and  passion,  then  learn 
yourselves  to  watch  the  course  and  fall  of  the  light  by  whose 
influence  you  live,  and  to  share  in  the  joy  of  human  spirits  in 
the  heavenly  gifts  of  sunbeam  and  shade.  For  I  tell  you 
truly,  that  to  a  quiet  heart,  and  healthy  brain,  and  indus- 
trious hand  there  is  more  delight,  and  use,  in  the  dappling  of 
one  wood- glade  with  flowers  and  sunshine,  than  to  the  rest- 
less, heartless,  and  idle  could  be  brought  by  a  panorama  of  a 
belt  of  the  world,  photographed  round  the  equator. 


LECTUKE  VII. 

COLOUB. 

173.  To-day  I  must  try  to  complete  our  elementary  sketch 
of  schools  of  art,  by  tracing  the  course  of  those  which  were 
distinguished  by  faculty  of  colour,  and  afterwards  to  deduce 
from  the  entire  scheme  advisable  methods  of  immediate  prac- 
tice. 

You  remember  that,  for  the  type  of  the  early  schools  of 


COLOUR. 


311 


colour,  1  chose  their  work  in  glass ;  as  for  that  of  the  early 
schools  of  chiaroscuro,  I  chose  their  work  in  clay. 

I  had  two  reasons  for  this.  First,  that  the  peculiar  skill  of 
colourists  is  seen  most  intelligibly  in  their  work  in  glass  or  in 
enamel :  secondly,  that  Nature  herself  produces  all  her  love- 
liest colours  in  some  kind  of  solid  or  liquid  glass  or  crystal. 
The  rainbow  is  painted  on  a  shower  of  melted  glass,  and  the 
colours  of  the  opal  are  produced  in  vitreous  flint  mixed  with 
water ;  the  green  and  blue,  and  golden  or  amber  brown  of 
flowing  water  is  in  surface  glossy,  and  in  motion,  '  splendidior 
vitro.'  And  the  loveliest  colours  ever  granted  to  human  sight 
— those  of  morning  and  evening  clouds  before  or  after  rain — 
are  produced  on  minute  particles  of  finely-divided  water,  or 
perhaps  sometimes,  ice.  But  more  than  this.  If  you  examine 
with  a  lens  some  of  the  richest  colours  of  flowers,  as,  for  in- 
stance, those  of  the  gentian  and  dianthus,  you  will  find  their 
texture  is  produced  by  a  crystalline  or  sugary  frost-work  upon 
them.  In  the  lychnis  of  the  high  Alps,  the  red  and  white 
have  a  kind  of  sugary  bloom,  as  rich  as  it  is  delicate.  It  is 
indescribable  ;  but  if  you  can  fancy  very  powdery  and  crys- 
talline snow  mixed  with  the  softest  cream,  and  then  dashed 
with  carmine,  it  may  give  you  some  idea  of  the  look  of  it. 
There  are  no  colours,  either  in  the  nacre  of  shells,  or  the 
plumes  of  birds  and  insects,  which  are  so  pure  as  those  of 
clouds,  opal,  or  flowers  ;  but  the  force  of  purple  and  blue  in 
some  butterflies,  and  the  methods  of  clouding,  and  strength 
of  burnished  lustre,  in  plumage  like  the  peacock's,  give  them 
more  universal  interest  ;  in  some  birds,  also,  as  in  our  own 
kingfisher,  the  colour  nearly  reaches  a  floral  preciousness. 
The  lustre  in  most,  however,  is  metallic  rather  than  vitreous  ; 
and  the  vitreous  always  gives  the  purest  hue.  Entirely  com- 
mon  and  vulgar  compared  with  these,  yet  to  be  noticed  as 
completing  the  crystalline  or  vitreous  system,  we  have  the 
colours  of  gems.  The  green  of  the  emerald  is  the  best  ot 
these  ;  but  at  its  best  is  as  vulgar  as  house-painting  beside  the 
green  of  birds'  plumage  or  of  clear  water.  No  diamond  shows 
colour  so  pure  as  a  dewdrop  ;  the  ruby  is  like  the  pink  of  an 
ill-dyed  and  half-washed-out  print*  compared  to  the  dianthus  j 


312 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


and  the  carbuncle  is  usually  quite  dead  unless  set  with  a  foil, 
and  even  then  is  not  prettier  than  the  seed  of  a  pomegranate. 
The  opal  is,  however,  an  exception.  When  pure  and  uncut  in 
its  native  rock,  it  presents  the  most  lovely  colours  that  can  be 
seen  in  the  world,  except  those  of  clouds. 

We  have  thus  in  nature,  chiefly  obtained  by  crystalline  con- 
ditions, a  series  of  groups  of  entirely  delicious  hues  ;  and  it  is 
one  of  the  best  signs  that  the  bodily  system  is  in  a  healthy 
state  when  we  can  see  these  clearly  in  their  most  delicate 
tints,  and  enjoy  them  fully  and  simply,  with  the  kind  of  en- 
joyment that  children  have  in  eating  sweet  things.  I  shall 
place  a  piece  of  rock  opal  on  the  table  in  your  working  room  : 
if  on  fine  days  you  will  sometimes  dip  it  in  water,  take  it  into 
sunshine,  and  examine  it  with  a  lens  of  moderate  power,  you 
may  always  test  your  progress  in  sensibility  to  colour  by  the 
degree  of  pleasure  it  gives  you. 

174.  Now,  the  course  of  our  main  colour  schools  is  briefly 
this  : — First,  we  have,  returning  to  our  hexagonal  scheme, 
line  ;  then  spaces  filled  with  pure  colour  ;  and  then  rnasses 
expressed  or  rounded  with  pure  colour.  And  during  these 
two  stages  the  masters  of  colour  delight  in  the  purest  tints, 
and  endeavour  as  far  as  possible  to  rival  those  of  opals  and 
flowers.  In  saying  'the  purest  tints/  I  do  not  mean  the 
simplest  types  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow,  but  the  most  pure 
tints  obtainable  by  their  combinations. 

175.  You  remember  I  told  you,  when  the  colourists  painted 
masses  or  projecting  spaces,  they,  aiming  always  at  colour, 
perceived  from  the  first  and  held  to  the  last  the  fact  that 
shadows,  though  of  course  darker  than  the  lights  with  refer- 
ence to  which  they  are  shadows,  are  not  therefore  necessarily 
less  vigorous  colours,  but  perhaps  more  vigorous.  Some  of 
the  most  beautiful  blues  and  purples  in  nature,  for  instance, 
are  those  of  mountains  in  shadow  against  amber  sky  ;  and 
the  darkness  of  the  hollow  in  the  centre  of  a  wild  rose  is  one 
glow  of  orange  fire,  owing  to  the  quantity  of  its  yellow  sta- 
mens. 

Well,  the  Venetians  always  saw  this,  and  all  great  colourists 
see  it,  and  are  thus  separated  from  the  non-colourists  or 


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schools  of  mere  chiaroscuro,  not  by  difference  in  style  merely 
but  by  being  right  while  the  others  are  wrong.  It  is  an  ab- 
solute fact  that  shadows  are  as  much  colours  as  lights  are  ; 
and  whoever  represents  them  by  merely,  the  subdued  or  dark- 
ened tint  of  the  light,  represents  them  falsely.  I  particularly 
want  you  to  observe  that  this  is  no  matter  of  taste,  but  fact 
If  you  are  especially  soberminded,  you  may  indeed  choose 
sober  colours  where  Venetians  would  have  chosen  gay  ones ; 
that  is  a  matter  of  taste  :  you  may  think  it  proper  for  a  hero 
to  wear  a  dress  without  patterns  on  it,  rather  than  an  embroid- 
ered one  ;  that  is  similarly  a  matter  of  taste :  but,  though 
you  may  also  think  it  would  be  dignified  for  a  hero's  limbs  to 
be  all  black,  or  brown,  on  the  shaded  side  of  them,  yet,  if 
you  are  using  colour  at  all,  you  cannot  so  have  him  to  your 
mind,  except  by  falsehood ;  he  never,  under  any  circum- 
stances, could  be  entirely  black  or  brown  on  one  side  of  him. 

176.  In  this,  then,  the  Venetians  are  separate  from  other 
schools  by  rightness,  and  they  are  so  to  their  last  days.  Vene- 
tian painting  is  in  this  matter  always  right.  But  also,  in  their 
early  days,  the  colourists  are  separated  from  other  schools  by 
their  contentment  with  tranquil  cheerfulness  of  light ;  by  their 
never  wanting  to  be  dazzled.  None  of  their  lights  are  flashing 
or  blinding ;  they  are  soft,  winning,  precious  ;  lights  of  pearl, 
not  of  lime  :  only,  you  know,  on  this  condition  they  cannot 
have  sunshine  :  their  day  is  the  day  of  Paradise ;  they  need  no 
candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun,  in  their  cities ;  and  everything 
is  seen  clear,  as  through  crystal,  far  or  near. 

This  holds  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Then  they  be- 
gin to  see  that  this,  beautiful  as  it  may  be,  is  still  a  make-be- 
lieve light ;  that  we  do  not  live  in  the  inside  of  a  pearl ;  but  in 
an  atmosphere  through  which  a  burning  sun  shines  thwart- 
edly,  and  over  which  a  sorrowful  night  must  far  prevail.  And 
then  the  chiaroscurists  succeed  in  persuading  them  of  the 
fact  that  there  is  mystery  in  the  day  as  in  the  night,  and  show 
them  how  constantly  to  see  truly,  is  to  see  dimly.  And  also 
they  teach  them  the  brilliancy  of  light,  and  the  degree  in  which 
it  is  raised  from  the  darkness  ;  and,  instead  of  their  sweet 
and  pearly  peace,  tempt  them  to  look  for  the  strength  of  flame 


314 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


and  coruscation  of  lightning,  and  flash  of  sunshine  on  armour 
and  on  points  of  spears. 

177.  The  noble  painters  take  the  lesson  nobly,  alike  for 
gloom  or  flame.  Titian  with  deliberate  strength,  Tintoret  with 
stormy  passion,  read  it,  side  by  side.  Titian  deepens  the  hues 
of  his  Assumption,  as  of  his  Entombment,  into  a  solemn  twi- 
light ;  Tintoret  involves  his  earth  in  coils  of  volcanic  cloud, 
and  withdraws,  through  circle  flaming  above  circle,  the  distant 
light  of  Paradise.  Both  of  them,  becoming  naturalist  and 
human,  add  the  veracity  of  Holbein's  intense  portraiture  to 
the  glow  and  the  dignity  they  had  themselves  inherited  from  the 
Masters  of  Peace  :  at  the  same  moment  another,  as  strong  as 
they,  and  in  pure  felicity  of  art-faculty,  even  greater  than  they, 
but  trained  in  a  lower  school, — Velasquez, —  produced  the 
miracles  of  colour  and  shadow-painting,  which  made  Reynolds 
say  of  him,  *  "What  we  all  do  with  labour,  he  does  with  ease 
and  one  more,  Correggio,  uniting  the  sensual  element  of  the 
Greek  schools  with  their  gloom,  and  their  light  with  their 
beauty,  and  all  these  with  the  Lombarclic  colour,  became,  as 
since  I  think  it  has  been  admitted  without  question,  the  cap- 
tain of  the  painter's  art  as  such.  Other  men  have  nobler  or 
more  numerous  gifts,  but  as  a  painter,  master  of  the  art  of 
laying  colour  so  as  to  be  lovely,  Correggio  is  alone. 

178.  I  said  the  noble  men  learnt  their  lesson  nobly.  The 
base  men  also,  and  necessarily,  learn  it  basely.  The  great 
men  rise  from  colour  to  sunlight.  The  base  ones  fall  from 
colour  to  candlelight.  To-day,  'non  ragioniam  di  lor,'  but  let 
us  see  what  this  great  change  which  perfects  the  art  of  paint- 
ing mainly  consists  in,  and  means.  For  though  we  are  only 
at  present  speaking  of  technical  matters,  every  one  of  them, 
I  can  scarcely  too  often  repeat,  is  the  outcome  and  sign  of  a 
mental  character,  and  you  can  only  understand  the  folds  of 
the  veil,  by  those  of  the  form  it  veils. 

179.  The  complete  painters,  we  find,  have  brought  dimness 
and  mystery  into  their  method  of  colouring.  That  means 
that  the  world  all  around  them  has  resolved  to  dream,  or  to 
believe,  no  more  ;  but  to  know,  and  to  see.  And  instantly  all 
knowledge  and  sight  are  given,  no  more  as  in  the  Gothic 


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315 


times,  through  a  window  of  glass,  brightly,  but  as  through  a 
telescope-glass,  darkly.  Your  cathedral  window  shut  you 
from  the  true  sky,  and  illumined  you  with  a  vision  ;  your 
telescope  leads  you  to  the  sky,  but  darkens  its  light,  and  re- 
veals nebula  beyond  nebula,  far  and  farther,  and  to  no  con- 
ceivable farthest — unresolvable.  That  is  what  the  mystery 
means. 

180.  Next,  what  does  that  Greek  opposition  of  black  and 
white  mean  ? 

In  the  sweet  crystalline  time  of  colour,  the  painters,  whether 
on  glass  or  canvas,  employed  intricate  patterns,  in  order  to 
mingle  hues  beautifully  with  each  other,  and  make  one  per- 
fect melody  of  them  all.  But  in  the  great  naturalist  school, 
they  like  their  patterns  to  come  in  the  Greek  way,  dashed 
dark  on  light, — gleaming  light  out  of  dark.  That  means  also 
that  the  world  round  them  has  again  returned  to  the  Greek 
conviction,  that  all  nature,  especially  human  nature,  is  not 
entirely  melodious  nor  luminous  ;  but  a  barred  and  broken 
thing  :  that  saints  have  their  foibles,  sinners  their  forces  ;  that 
the  most  luminous  virtue  is  often  only  a  flash,  and  the  black- 
est-looking fault  is  sometimes  only  a  stain  :  and,  without 
confusing  in  the  least  black  with  white,  they  can  forgive,  or 
even  take  delight  in  things  that  are  like  the  vefipU,  dappled. 

181.  You  have  then — first,  mystery.  Secondly,  opposition 
of  dark  and  light.  Then,  lastly,  whatever  truth  of  form  the 
dark  and  light  can  show. 

That  is  to  say,  truth  altogether,  and  resignation  to  it,  and 
quiet  resolve  to  make  the  best  of  it.  And  therefore,  portrait- 
ure of  living  men,  women,  and  children, — no  more  of  saints, 
cherubs,  or  demons.  So  here  I  have  brought  for  your  stand- 
ards of  perfect  art,  a  little  maiden  of  the  Strozzi  family,  with 
her  dog,  by  Titian  ;  and  a  little  princess  of  the  house  of  Savoy, 
by  Vandyke  ;  and  Charles  the  Fifth,  by  Titian  ;  and  a  queen, 
by  Velasquez  ;  and  an  English  girl  in  a  brocaded  gown,  by 
Reynolds ;  and  an  English  physician  in  his  plain  coat,  and 
wig,  by  Reynolds  :  and  if  you  do  not  like  them,  I  cannot  help 
myself,  for  I  can  find  nothing  better  for  you. 

182.  Better  ? — I  must  pause  at  the  word.  Nothing  stronger, 


316 


LECTURES  ON  ART 


certainly,  nor  so  strong.  Nothing  so  wonderful,  so  inimitable, 
so  keen  in  unprejudiced  and  unbiassed  sight. 

Yet  better,  perhaps,  the  sight  that  was  guided  by  a  sacred  will; 
the  power  that  could  be  taught  to  weaker  hands  ;  the  work 
that  was  faultless,  though  not  inimitable,  bright  with  felicity 
of  heart,  and  consummate  in  a  disciplined  and  companionable 
skill.  You  will  find,  when  I  can  place  in  your  hands  the  notes 
on  Verona,  which  I  read  at  the  Royal  Institution,  that  T  have 
ventured  to  call  the  sera  of  painting  represented  by  John 
Bellini,  the  time  '  of  the  Masters/  Truly  they  deserved  the 
name,  who  did  nothing  but  what  was  lovely,  and  taught  only 
what  was  right.  These  mightier,  who  succeeded  them, 
crowned,  but  closed,  the  dynasties  of  art,  and  since  their  day 
painting  has  never  flourished  more. 

183.  There  were  many  reasons  for  this,  without  fault  of 
theirs.  They  were  exponents,  in  the  first  place,  of  the  change 
in  all  men's  minds  from  civil  and  religious  to  merely  domestic 
passion  ;  the  love  of  their  gods  and  their  country  had  con- 
tracted itself  now  into  that  of  their  domestic  circle,  which  was 
little  more  than  the  halo  of  themselves.  You  will  see  the  re- 
flection of  this  change  in  painting  at  once  by  comparing  the 
two  Madonnas  (S.  37,  John  Bellini's,  and  Eaphael's,  called 
'  della  Seggiola ').  Bellini's  Madonna  cares  for  all  creatures 
through  her  child ;  Raphael's,  for  her  child  only. 

Again,  the  world  round  these  painters  had  become  sad  and 
proud,  instead  of  happy  and  humble  ; — its  domestic  peace  was 
darkened  by  irreligion,  and  made  restless  by  pride.  And  the 
Hymen,  whose  statue  this  fair  English  girl  of  Reynolds' 
thought  must  decorate  (S.  43),  is  blind,  and  holds  a  coronet. 

Again,  in  the  splendid  power  of  realization,  which  these 
greatest  of  artists  had  reached,  there  was  the  latent  possibility 
of  amusement  by  deception,  and  of  excitement  by  sensualism. 
And  Dutch  trickeries  of  base  resemblance,  and  French  and 
English  fancies  of  insidious  beauty,  soon  occupied  the  eyes  of 
the  populace  of  Europe,  too  restless  and  wretched  now  to  care 
for  the  sweet  earth-berries  and  Madonna's  ivy  of  Cima,  and 
too  ignoble  to  perceive  Titian's  colour,  or  Correggio's  shade. 

184.  Enough  sources  of  evil  were  here,  in  the  temper  and 


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317 


power  of  the  consummate  art.  In  its  practical  methods  there 
was  another,  the  fatallest  of  all.  These  great  artists  brought 
with  them  mystery,  despondency,  domesticity,  sensuality  :  of 
all  these,  good  came,  as  well  as  evil.  One  thing  more  they 
brought,  of  which  nothing  but  evil  ever  comes,  or  can  come — 
Liberty. 

By  the  discipline  of  five  hundred  years  they  had  learned 
and  inherited  such  power,  that  whereas  all  former  painters 
could  be  right  only  by  effort,  they  could  be  right  with  ease  ; 
and  whereas  all  former  painters  could  be  right  only  under  re- 
straint, they  could  be  right,  free.  Tintoret's  touch,  Luini's, 
Correggio's,  Reynolds',  and  Velasquez's,  are  all  as  free  as  the 
air,  and  yet  right.  £  How  very  fine  ! '  said  everybody.  Un- 
questionably, very  fine.  Next,  said  everybody,  '  "What  a  grand 
discovery  !  Here  is  the  finest  work  ever  done,  and  it  is  quite 
free.  Let  us  all  be  free  then,  and  what  fine  things  shall  we 
not  do  also  ! '    With  what  results  we  too  well  know. 

Nevertheless,  remember  you  are  to  delight  in  the  freedom 
won  by  these  mighty  men  through  obedience,  though  you  are 
not  to  covet  it.  Obey,  and  you  also  shall  be  free  in  time ; 
but  in  these  minor  things,  as  well  as  in  great,  it  is  only  right 
service  which  is  perfect  freedom. 

185.  This,  broadly,  is  the  history  of  the  early  and  late 
colour-schools.  The  first  of  these  I  shall  call  generally,  hence- 
forward, the  school  of  crystal ;  the  other  that  of  clay  :  potter's 
clay,  or  human,  are  too  sorrowfully  the  same,  as  far  as  art  is 
concerned.  Now  remember,  in  practice,  you  cannot  follow 
both  these  schools ;  you  must  distinctly  adopt  the  principles 
of  one  or  the  other.  I  will  put  the  means  of  following  either 
within  your  reach  ;  and  according  to  your  dispositions  you 
will  choose  one  or  the  other  :  all  I  have  to  guard  you  against 
is  the  mistake  of  thinking  you  can  unite  the  two.  If  you  want 
to  paint  (even  in  the  most  distant  and  feeble  way)  in  the  Greek 
school,  the  school  of  Lionardo,  Correggio,  and  Turner,  you 
cannot  design  coloured  windows,  nor  Angelican  paradises. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  choose  to  live  in  the  peace  of  para- 
dise, you  cannot  share  in  the  gloomy  triumphs  of  the  earth. 

186.  And,  incidentally  note,  as  a  practical  matter  of  imme- 


818 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


diate  importance,  that  painted  windows  have  nothing  to  do 
with  chiaroscuro.  The  virtue  of  glass  is  to  be  transparent 
everywhere.  If  you  care  to  build  a  palace  of  jewels,  painted 
glass  is  richer  than  all  the  treasures  of  Aladdin's  lamp  ;  but  if 
you  like  pictures  better  than  jewels,  you  must  come  into  broad 
daylight  to  paint  them.  A  picture  in  coloured  glass  is  one  of 
the  most  vulgar  of  barbarisms,  and  only  fit  to  be  ranked  with 
the  gauze  transparencies  and  chemical  illuminations  of  the 
sensational  stage.  Also,  put  out  of  your  minds  at  once  all 
question  about  difficulty  of  getting  colour  ;  in  glass  we  have 
all  the  colours  that  are  wanted,  only  we  do  not  know  either 
how  to  choose,  or  how  to  connect  them  ;  and  we  are  always 
trying  to  get  them  bright,  when  their  real  virtue  is  to  be  deep, 
and  tender,  and  subdued.  We  will  have  a  thorough  study  of 
painted  glass  soon  :  meanwhile  I  merely  give  you  a  type  of  its 
perfect  style,  in  two  windows  from  Chalons  sur  Marne  (S. 
141). 

187.  You  will  have  then  to  choose  between  these  two  modes 
of  thought :  for  my  own  part,  with  what  poor  gift  and  skill  is 
in  me,  I  belong  wholly  to  the  chiaroscurist  school ;  and  shall 
teach  you  therefore  chiefly  that  which  I  am  best  able  to  teach  : 
and  the  rather,  that  it  is  only  in  this  school  that  you  can  fol- 
low out  the  study  either  of  natural  history  or  landscape  The 
form  of  a  wild  animal,  or  the  wrath  of  a  mountain  torrent, 
would  both  be  revolting  (or  in  a  certain  sense  invisible)  to 
the  calm  fantasy  of  a  painter  in  the  schools  of  crystal.  He 
must  lay  his  lion  asleep  in  St.  Jerome's  study  beside  his  tame 
partridge  and  spare  slippers ;  lead  the  appeased  river  by  al- 
ternate azure  promontories,  and  restrain  its  courtly  little 
streamlets  with  margins  of  marble.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
your  studies  of  mythology  and  literature  may  best  be  con- 
nected with  these  schools  of  purest  and  calmest  imagination  ; 
and  their  discipline  will  be  useful  to  you  in  yet  another  di- 
rection, and  that  a  very  important  one.  It  will  teach  you  to 
take  delight  in  little  things,  and  develope  in  you  the  joy  which 
all  men  should  feel  in  purity  and  order,  not  only  in  pictures 
but  in  reality.  For,  indeed,  the  best  art  of  this  school  of 
fantasy  may  at  last  be  in  reality,  and  the  chiaroscurists,  true 


COLOUR 


319 


in  ideal,  may  be  less  helpful  in  act.  We  cannot  arrest  sunsets 
nor  carve  mountains,  but  we  may  turn  every  English  home- 
stead, if  we  choose,  into  a  picture  by  Cima  or  John  Bellini, 
which  shall  be  '  no  counterfeit,  but  the  true  and  perfect  image 
of  life  indeed.' 

188.  For  the  present,  however,  and  yet  for  some  little  time 
during  your  progress,  you  will  not  have  to  choose  your  school. 
For  both,  as  we  have  seen,  begin  in  delineation,  and  both  pro- 
ceed by  filling  flat  spaces  with  an  even  tint.  And  therefore  this 
will  be  the  course  of  work  for  you,  founded  on  all  that  we 
have  seen. 

Having  learned  to  measure,  and  draw  a  pen  line  with  some 
steadiness  (the  geometrical  exercises  for  this  purpose  being 
properly  school,  not  University  work),  you  shall  have  a  series 
of  studies  from  the  plants  which  are  of  chief  importance  in  the 
history  of  art ;  first  from  their  real  forms,  and  then  from  the 
conventional  and  heraldic  expressions  of  them  ;  then  we  will 
take  examples  of  the  filling  of  ornamental  forms  with  flat  col- 
our in  Egyptian,  Greek,  and  Gothic  design  ;  and  then  we  will 
advance  to  animal  forms  treated  in  the  same  .severe  way,  and  so 
to  the  patterns  and  colour  designs  on  animals  themselves.  And 
when  we  are  sure  of  our  firmness  of  hand  and  accuracy  of  eye, 
wTe  will  go  on  into  light  and  shade. 

189.  In  process  of  time,  these  series  of  exercises  will,  I  hope, 
be  sufficiently  complete  and  systematic  to  show  its  purpose  at 
a  glance.  But  during  the  present  year,  I  shall  content  my- 
self with  placing  a  few  examples  of  these  different  kinds  of 
practice  in  your  rooms  for  work,  explaining  in  the  catalogue 
the  position  they  will  ultimately  occupy,  and  the  technical 
points  of  process  into  wThich  it  is  of  no  use  to  enter  in  a  gen- 
eral lecture.  After  a  little  time  spent  in  copying  these,  your 
own  predilections  must  determine  your  future  course  of  study ; 
only  remember,  whatever  school  you  follow,  it  must  be  only 
to  learn  method,  not  to  imitate  result,  and  to  acquaint  your- 
self with  the  minds  of  other  men,  but  not  to  adopt  them  as 
your  own.  Be  assured  that  no  good  can  come  of  your  work 
but  as  it  arises  simply  out  of  your  own  true  natures  and  the 
necessities  of  the  time  around  you,  though  in  many  respects  an 


320 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


evil  one.  You  live  in  an  age  of  base  conceit  and  baser  servil* 
ity — an  age  whose  intellect  is  chiefly  formed  by  pillage  and 
occupied  in  desecration ;  one  day  mimicking,  the  next  destroy- 
ing, the  works  of  all  the  noble  persons  who  made  its  intellect- 
ual or  art  life  possible  to  it : — an  age  without  honest  confidence 
enough  in  itself  to  carve  a  cherry-stone  with  an  original  fancy, 
but  with  insolence  enough  to  abolish  the  solar  system,  if  it 
were  allowed  to  meddle  with  it.  In  the  midst  of  all  this,  you 
have  to  become  lowly  and  strong  ;  to  recognise  the  powers  of 
others  and  to  fulfil  your  own.  I  shall  try  to  bring  before  you 
every  form  of  ancient  art,  that  you  may  read  and  profit  by  it, 
not  imitate  it.  You  shall  draw  Egyptian  kings  dressed  in  col- 
ours like  the  rainbow,  and  Doric  gods,  and  Runic  monsters, 
and  Gothic  monks — not  that  you  may  draw  like  Egyptians  or 
Norsemen,  nor  yield  yourselves  passively  to  be  bound  by  the 
devotion  or  infected  with  the  delirium  of  the  past,  but  that 
you  may  know  truly  what  other  men  have  felt  during  their 
poor  span  of  life ;  and  open  your  own  hearts  to  what  the 
heavens  and  earth  may  have  to  tell  you  in  yours. 

Do  not  be  surprised,  therefore,  nor  provoked,  if  I  give  }tou 
at  first  strange  things,  and  rude,  to  draw.  As  soon  as  you  try 
them,  you  will  find  they  are  difficult  enough,  yet,  with  care, 
entirely  possible.  As  you  go  on  drawing  them  they  will  be- 
come interesting,  and,  as  soon  as  you  understand  them,  you 
will  be  on  the  way  to  understand  yourselves  also. 

190.  In  closing  this  first  course  of  lectures.  I  have  one  word 
more  to  say  respecting  the  possible  consequence  of  the  intro- 
duction of  art  among  the  studies  of  the  University.  "What 
art  may  do  for  scholarship,  I  have  no  right  to  conjecture  ;  but 
what  scholarship  may  do  for  art,  I  may  in  all  modesty  tell  you. 
Hitherto,  great  artists,  though  always  gentlemen,  have  yet 
been  too  exclusively  craftsmen.  Art  has  been  less  thoughtful 
than  we  suppose  ;  it  has  taught  much,  but  much,  also,  falsely. 
Many  of  the  greatest  pictures  are  enigmas  ;  others,  beautiful 
toys  ;  others,  harmful  and  corrupting  toys.  In  the  loveliest 
there  is  something  weak  ;  in  the  greatest  there  is  something 
guilty.  And  this,  gentlemen,  if  you  will,  is  the  new  thing 
that  may  come  to  pass, — that  the  scholars  of  England  may  re* 


COLOUR. 


321 


solve  to  teach  also  with  the  silent  power  of  the  arts  ;  and  that 
some  among  you  may  so  learn  and  use  them,  that  pictures 
may  be  painted  which  shall  not  be  enigmas  any  more,  but 
open  teachings  of  what  can  no  otherwise  be  so  well  shown  ; 
which  shall  not  be  fevered  or  broken  visions  any  more,  but 
shall  be  filled  with  the  indwelling  light  of  self-possessed  im- 
agination ;  which  shall  not  be  stained  or  enfeebled  any  more 
by  evil  passion,  but  glorious  with  the  strength  and  chastity  of 
noble  human  love  ;  and  which  shall  no  more  degrade  or  dis- 
guise the  work  of  God  in  heaven,  but  testify  of  Him  as  here 
dwelling  with  men,  and  walking  with  them,  not  angry,  in  the 
garden  of  the  earth. 


THE 

ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE 

ARRANGED  FOR  THE  USE  OF  SCHOOLS 

AND  INTENDED  TO  BE  READ  IN  CONNECTION  WITH  THE  FIRST 
THREE  BOOKS  OF  EUCLID 


PEEF  ACE. 


For  some  time  back  I  have  felt  the  want,  among  Students  of 
Drawing,  of  a  written  code  of  accurate  Perspective  Law ;  the 
modes  of  construction  in  common  use  being  various,  and,  for 
some  problems,  insufficient.  It  would  have  been  desirable  to 
draw  up  such  a  code  in  popular  language,  so  as  to  do  away 
with  the  most  repulsive  difficulties  of  the  subject ;  but  finding 
this  popularization  would  be  impossible,  without  elaborate 
figures  and  long  explanations,  such  as  I  had  no  leisure  to  pre- 
pare, I  have  arranged  the  necessary  rules  in  a  short  mathe- 
matical form,  which  any  school-boy  may  read  through  in  a 
few  days,  after  he  has  mastered  the  first  three  and  the  sixth 
books  of  Euclid. 

Some  awkward  compromises  have  been  admitted  between 
the  first-attempted  popular  explanation,  and  the  severer  ar- 
rangement, involving  irregular  lettering  and  redundant  phrase- 
ology ;  but  I  cannot  for  the  present  do  more,  and  leave  the 
book  therefore  to  its  trial,  hoping  that,  if  it  be  found  by  mas- 
ters of  schools  to  answer  its  purpose,  I  may  hereafter  bring 
it  into  better  form.* 

*Some  irregularities  of  arrangement  have  been  admitted  merely  for 
the  sake  of  convenient  reference  ;  the  eighth  problem,  for  instance, 
ought  to  have  been  given  as  a  case  of  the  seventh,  but  is  separately 
enunciated  on  account  of  its  importance. 

Several  constructions,  which  ought  to  have  been  given  as  problems, 
are  on  the  contrary  given  as  corollaries,  in  order  to  keep  the  more  di- 
rectly connected  problems  in  closer  sequence  ;  thus  the  construction  of 
rectangles  and  polygons  in  vertical  planes  would  appear  by  the  Table  of 
Contents  to  have  been  omitted,  being  given  in  the  corollary  to  Problem 
IX. 


326 


PREFACE. 


An  account  of  practical  methods,  sufficient  for  general  pur- 
poses of  sketching,  might  indeed  have  been  set  down  in  much 
less  space,  but  if  the  student  reads  the  following  pages  care- 
fully, he  will  not  only  find  himself  able,  on  occasion,  to  solve 
perspective  problems  of  a  complexity  greater  than  the  ordinary 
rules  will  reach,  but  obtain  a  clue  to  many  important  laws  of 
pictorial  effect,  no  less  than  of  outline.  The  subject  thus  ex- 
amined becomes,  at  least  to  my  mind,  very  curious  and  inter- 
esting ;  but,  for  students  who  are  unable  or  unwilling  to  take 
it  up  in  this  abstract  form,  I  believe  good  help  will  be  soon 
furnished,  in  a  series  of  illustrations  of  practical  perspective 
now  in  preparation  by  Mr.  Le  Vengeur.  I  have  not  seen  this 
essay  in  an  advanced  state,  but  the  illustrations  shown  to  me 
were  very  clear  and  good ;  and  as  the  author  has  devoted 
much  thought  to  their  arrangement,  I  hope  that  his  work  will 
be  precisely  what  is  wanted  by  the  general  learner. 

Students  washing  to  pursue  the  subject  into  its  more  ex- 
tended branches  will  find,  I  believe,  Cloquet's  treatise  the 
best  hitherto  published.* 

*  Nouveau  Traite  Elementaire  de  Perspective.  Bacbelier* 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


njTEODUOTIOK 


When  you  begin  to  read  this  book,  sit  down  very  near  the 
window,  and  shut  the  window.  I  hope  the  view  out  of  it  is 
pretty  ;  but,  whatever  the  view  may  be,  we  shall  find  enough 
in  it  for  an  illustration  of  the  first  principles  of  perspective 
(or,  literally,  of  "  looking  through  "). 

Every  pane  of  your  window  may  be  considered,  if  you 
choose,  as  a  glass  picture  ;  and  what  you  see  through  it,  as 
painted  on  its  surface. 

And  if,  holding  your  head  still,  you  extend  your  hand  to  the 
glass,  you  ma}',  with  a  brush  full  of  any  thick  colour,  trace, 
roughly,  the  lines  of  the  landscape  on  the  glass. 

But,  to  do  this,  you  must  hold  your  head  very  still.  Not 
only  you  must  not  move  it  sideways,  nor  up  and  down,  but 
it  must  not  even  move  backwards  or  forwards  ;  for,  if  you 
move  your  head  forwards,  you  will  see  more  of  the  landscape 
through  the  pane  ;  and,  if  you  move  it  backwards,  you  will 
see  less :  or  considering  the  pane  of  glass  as  a  picture,  when 
you  hold  your  head  near  it,  the  objects  are  painted  small, 
and  a  great  many  of  them  go  into  a  little  space  ;  but,  when 
you  hold  your  head  some  distance  back,  the  objects  are  paint- 
ed larger  upon  the  pane,  and  fewer  of  them  go  into  the  field 
of  it, 

But,  besides  holding  your  head  still,  you  must,  when  you 
try  to  trace  the  picture  on  the  glass,  shut  one  of  your  eyes.  If 


328  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


you  do  not,  the  point  of  the  brush  appears  double  ;  and,  on 
farther  experiment,  you  will  observe  that  each  of  your  eyes 
sees  the  object  in  a  different  place  on  the  glass,  so  that  the 
tracing  which  is  true  to  the  sight  of  the  right  eye  is  a  couple 
of  inches  (or  more,  according  to  your  distance  from  the  pane), 
to  the  left  of  that  which  is  true  to  the  sight  of  the  left. 

Thus,  it  is  only  possible  to  draw  what  you  see  through  the 
window  rightly  on  the  surface  of  the  glass,  by  fixing  one  eye 
at  a  given  point,  and  neither  moving  it  to  the  right  nor  left 
nor  up  nor  down,  nor  backwards  nor  forwards.  Every  picture 
drawn  in  true  perspective  may  be  considered  as  an  upright 
piece  of  glass,*  on  which  the  objects  seen  through  it  have  been 
thus  drawn.  Perspective  can,  therefore,  only  be  quite  right, 
by  being  calculated  for  one  fixed  position  of  the  eye  of  the 
observer  ;  nor  will  it  ever  appear  deceptively  right  unless  seen 
precisely  from  the  point  it  is  calculated  for.  Custom,  how- 
ever, enables  us  to  feel  the  rightness  of  the  work  on  using 
both  our  eyes,  and  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  even  when  we  stand 
at  some  distance  from  the  point  it  is  designed  for. 

Supposing  that,  instead  of  a  window,  an  unbroken  plate  of 
crystal  extended  itself  to  the  right  and  left  of  you,  and  high 
in  front,  and  that  you  had  a  brush  as  long  as  you  wanted  (a 
mile  long,  suppose),  and  could  paint  with  such  a  brush,  then 
the  clouds  high  up,  nearly  over  your  head,  and  the  landscape 
far  away  to  the  right  and  left,  might  be  traced,  and  painted, 
on  this  enormous  crystal  field,  f  But  if  the  field  were  so  vast 
(suppose  a  mile  high  and  a  mile  wide),  certainly,  after  the  pict- 
ure was  done,  you  would  not  stand  as  near  to  it,  to  see  it,  as 
you  are  now  sitting  near  to  your  window.  In  order  to  trace 
the  upper  clouds  through  your  great  glass,  you  would  have 
had  to  stretch  your  neck  quite  back,  and  nobody  likes  to  bend 
their  neck  back  to  see  the  top  of  a  picture.    So  you  would 

f  If  the  glass  were  not  upright,  but  sloping,  the  objects  might  still  be 
drawn  through  it,  but  their  perspective  would  then  be  different.  Per- 
spective, as  commonly  taught,  is  always  calculated  for  a  vertical  plane 
of  picture. 

f  Supposing  it  to  have  no  thickness  ;  otherwise  the  images  would  be 
distorted  by  refraction. 


INTRODUCTION. 


329 


walk  a  long  way  back  to  see  the  great  picture — a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  perhaps, — and  then  all  the  perspective  would  be  wrong, 
and  would  look  quite  distorted,  and  you  would  discover  that 
you  ought  to  have  painted  it  from  the  greater  distance,  if  you 
meant  to  look  at  it  from  that  distance.  Thus,  the  distance  at 
which  you  intend  the  observer  to  stand  from  a  picture,  and 
for  which  you  calculate  the  perspective,  ought  to  regulate  to  a 
certain  degree  the  size  of  the  picture.  If  you  place  the  point 
of  observation  near  the  canvas,  you  should  not  make  the  pict- 
ure very  large :  vice  versa,  if  you  place  the  point  of  observation 
far  from  the  canvas,  you  should  not  make  it  very  small ;  the 
fixing,  therefore,  of  this  point  of  observation  determines,  as  a 
matter  of  convenience,  within  certain  limits,  the  size  of  your 
picture.  But  it  does  not  determine  this  size  by  any  perspec- 
tive law  ;  and  it  is  a  mistake  made  by  many  writers  on  per- 
spective, to  connect  some  cf  their  rules  definitely  with  the  size 
of  the  picture.  For,  suppose  that  you  had  what  you  now  see 
through  your  window  painted  actually  upon  its  surface,  it 
would  be  quite  optional  to  cut  out  any  piece  you  chose,  with 
the  piece  of  the  landscape,  that  was  painted  on  it.  You  might 
have  only  half  a  pane,  with  a  single  tree  ;  or  a  whole  pane, 
with  two  trees  and  a  cottage  ;  or  two  panes  with  the  whole 
farmyard  and  pond  ;  or  four  panes,  with  farnryard,  pond,  and 
foreground.  And  any  of  these  pieces,  if  the  landscape  upon 
them  were,  as  a  scene,  pleasantly  composed,  would  be  agree- 
able pictures,  though  of  quite  different  sizes ;  and  yet  they 
would  be  all  calculated  for  the  same  distance  of  observation. 

In  the  following  treatise,  therefore,  I  keep  the  size  of  the 
picture  entirely  undetermined.  I  consider  the  field  of  canvas 
as  wholly  unlimited,  and  on  that  condition  determine  the  per- 
spective laws.  After  we  know  how  to  apply  those  laws  with- 
out limitation,  we  shall  see  what  limitations  of  the  size  of  the 
picture  their  results  may  render  advisable. 

But  although  the  size  of  the  picture  is  thus  independent  of 
the  observer's  distance,  the  size  of  the  object  represented  in  the 
picture  is  not.  On  the  contrary,  that  size  is  fixed  by  absolute 
mathematical  law  ;  that  is  to  say,  supposing  you  have  to  draw 
a  tower  a  hundred  feet  high,  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant 


330 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


from  you,  the  height  which  you  ought  to  give  that  tower  on 
your  paper  depends,  with  mathematical  precision,  on  the  dis- 
tance at  which  you  intend  your  paper  to  be  placed.  So,  also, 
do  all  the  rules  for  drawing  the  form  of  the  tower,  whatever 
it  may  be. 

Hence,  the  first  thing  to  be  done  in  beginning  a  drawing  is 
to  fix,  at  your  choice,  this  distance  of  observation,  or  the  dis- 
tance at  which  you  mean  to  stand  from  your  paper.  After 
that  is  determined,  all  is  determined,  except  only  the  ultimate 
size  of  your  picture,  which  you  may  make  greater,  or  less,  not 
by  altering  the  size  of  the  things  represented,  but  by  taking  in 
more,  or  fewer  of  them.  So,  then,  before  proceeding  to  apply 
any  practical  perspective  rule,  we  must  always  have  our  dis- 
tance of  observation  marked,  and  the  most  convenient  way  of 
marking  it  is  the  following. 


PLACING  OF  THE  SIGHT-POINT,   SIGHT-LINE,   STATION-POINT,  AND  STA« 
TION-LINE. 


r-  

 La 

T 

1 

R 

Fig.  1. 


I.  The  Sight-Point.— Let  abcd,  Fig.  1.,  be  your  sheet  of 
paper,  the  larger  the  better,  though  perhaps  we  may  cut  out 
of  it  at  last  only  a  small  piece  for  our  picture,  such  as  the 
dotted  circle  nopq,  This  circle  is  not  intended  to  limit 
either  the  size  or  shape  of  our  picture  :  you  may  ultimately 


INTRODUCTION. 


331 


have  it  round  or  oval,  horizontal  or  upright,  small  or  large,  as 
you  choose.  I  only  dot  the  line  to  give  you  an  idea  of  where- 
abouts you  will  probably  like  to  have  it  ;  and,  as  the  opera- 
tions of  perspective  are  more  conveniently  performed  upon 
paper  underneath  the  picture  than  above  it,  I  put  this  con- 
jectural circle  at  the  top  of  the  paper,  about  the  middle  of  it, 
leaving  plenty  of  paper  on  both  sides  and  at  the  bottom. 
Now,  as  an  observer  generally  stands  near  the  middle  of  a 
picture  to  look  at  it,  we  had  better  at  first,  and  for  simplicity's 
sake,  fix  the  point  of  observation  opposite  the  middle  of  our 
conjectural  picture.  So  take  the  point  s,  the  centre  of  the 
circle  nopq  ; — or,  which  will  be  simpler  for  you  in  your  own 
work,  take  the  point  s  at  random  near  the  top  of  your  paper, 
and  strike  the  circle  nopq  round  it,  any  size  you  like.  Then 
the  point  s  is  to  represent  the  point  opposite  which  you  wish 
the  observer  of  your  picture  to  place  his  eye,  in  looking  at  it. 
Call  this  point  the  "  Sight-Point." 

II.  The  Sight-Line. — Through  the  Sight-point,  s,  draw  a 
horizontal  line,  g  h,  right  across  your  paper  from  side  to  side, 
and  call  this  line  the  "  Sight-Line." 

This  line  is  of  great  practical  use,  representing  the  level  of 
the  eye  of  the  observer  all  through  the  picture.  You  will 
find  hereafter  that  if  there  is  a  horizon  to  be  represented  in 
your  picture,  as  of  distant  sea  or  plain,  this  line  defines  it. 

III.  The  Station-Line. — From  s  let  fall  a  perpendicular 
line,  s  r,  to  the  bottom  of  the  paper,  and  call  this  line  the 
"  Station-Line." 

This  represents  the  line  on  which  the  observer  stands,  at  a 
greater  or  less  distance  from  the  picture  ;  and  it  ought  to  be 
imagined  as  drawn  right  out  from  the  paper  at  the  point  s. 
Hold  your  paper  upright  in  front  of  you,  and  hold  your  pen- 
cil horizontally,  with  its  point  against  the  point  s,  as  if  you 
wanted  to  run  it  through  the  paper  there,  and  the  pencil  will 
represent  the  direction  in  which  the  line  s  r  ought  to  be 
drawn.  But  as  all  the  measurements  which  we  have  to  set 
upon  this  line,  and  operations  which  we  have  to  perform  with 


332  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


it,  are  just  the  same  when  it  is  drawn  on  the  paper  itself,  be* 
low  s,  as  they  would  be  if  it  were  represented  by  a  ware  in 
the  position  of  the  levelled  pencil,  and  as  they  are  much  more 
easily  performed  when  it  is  drawn  on  the  paper,  it  is  always 
in  practice  so  drawn. 

IV.  The  Station-Point. — On  this  line,  mark  the  distance  s  t 
at  your  pleasure,  for  the  distance  at  which  you  wish  your 
picture  to  be  seen,  and  call  the  point  T  the  "  Station-Point." 

In  practice,  it  is  generally  advisable  to  make  the  distance 
s  t  about  as  great  as  the  diameter  of  your  intended  picture  ; 
and  it  should,  for  the  most  part,  be  more  rather  than  less  ; 
but,  as  I  have  just  stated,  this  is  quite  arbitrary.  However, 
in  this  figure,  as  an  approximation  to  a  generally  advisable 
distance,  I  make  the  distance  s  t  equal  to  the  diameter  of  the 
circle  n  o  p  q.  Now,  having  fixed  this  distance,  s  t,  all  the 
dimensions  of  the  objects  in  our  picture  are  fixed  likewise, 
and  for  this  reason  : — 

Let  the  upright  line  a  b,  Fig.  2.,  represent  a  pane  of  glass 
placed  where  our  picture  is  to  be  placed ;  but  seen  at  the  side 


Q 


E  A 


Fig.  2. 

of  it,  edgeways  ;  let  s  be  the  Sight-point ;  s  t  the  Station-line, 
which,  in  this  figure,  observe,  is  in  its  true  position,  drawn 
out  from  the  paper,  not  down  upon  it ;  and  t  the  Station- 
point. 


INTRODUCTION. 


333 


Suppose  the  Station-line  s  t  to  be  continued,  or  in  math- 
ematical language  "  produced/'  though  s,  far  beyond  the  pane 
of  glass,  and  let  p  q  be  a  tower  or  other  upright  object  situ- 
ated on  or  above  this  line. 

Now  the  apparent  height  of  the  tower  p  q  is  measured  by 
the  angle  qtp,  between  the  rays  of  light  which  come  from 
the  top  and  bottom  of  it  to  the  eye  of  the  observer.  But  the 
actual  height  of  the  image  of  the  tower  on  the  pane  of  glass 
a  b,  between  us  and  it,  is  the  distance  p'  q',  between  the  points 
where  the  rays  traverse  the  glass. 

Evidently,  the  farther  from  the  point  t  we  place  the  glass, 
making  s  t  longer,  the  larger  will  be  the  image  ;  and  the 
nearer  we  place  it  to  t,  the  smaller  the  image,  and  that  in  a 
fixed  ratio.  Let  the  distance  d  t  be  the  direct  distance  from 
the  Station-point  to  the  foot  of  the  object.  Then,  if  we  place 
the  glass  a  b  at  one  third  of  that  whole  distance,  p'  q'  will  be 
one  third  of  the  real  height  of  the  object ;  if  we  place  the 
glass  at  two  thirds  of  the  distance,  as  at  e  f,  p"  q"  (the  height 
of  the  image  at  that  point)  will  be  two  thirds  the  height*  of 
the  object,  and  so  on.  Therefore  the  mathematical  law  is 
that  p'  q'  will  be  to  p  q  as  s  t  to  d  t.  I  put  this  ratio  clearly 
by  itself  that  you  may  remember  it : 

p'  q'  :  p  q  : :  s  t  :  d  t 

or  in  words  : 

p  dash  q  dash  is  to  p  q  as  s  t  to  d  t. 

In  which  formula,  recollect  that  p'  q'  is  the  height  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  object  on  the  picture  ;  p  q  the  height  of  the 
object  itself ;  s  the  Sight-point ;  t  the  Station-point ;  d  a  point 
at  the  direct  distance  of  the  object ;  though  the  object  is  sel- 
dom placed  actually  on  the  line  t  s  produced,  and  may  be  far 
to  the  right  or  left  of  it,  the  formula  is  still  the  same. 

For  let  s,  Fig.  3.,  be  the  Sight-point,  and  a  b  the  glass — 

*  I  say  "height"  instead  of  "magnitude,"  for  a  reason  stated  in 
Appendix  I.,  to  which  you  will  soon  be  referred.  Read  on  here  at 
present. 


334 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


here  seen  looking  down  on  its  upper  edge,  not  sideways 
then  if  the  tower  (represented  now,  as  on  a  map,  by  the  dark 
square),  instead  of  being  at  d  on  the  line  s  t  produced,  be  at 


tance,  for  e  t  is  the  more  direct  of  the  two  ;  but  there  is  no 
other  term  which  would  not  cause  confusion. 

Lastly,  in  order  to  complete  our  knowledge  of  the  position 
of  an  object,  the  vertical  height  of  some  point  in  it,  above  or 
below  the  eye,  must  be  given  ;  that  is  to  say,  either  n  p  or  d  q 
in  Fig.  2.*  :  this  I  shall  call  the  "  vertical  distance  "  of  the 
point  given.  In  all  perspective  problems  these  three  dis- 
tances, and  the  dimensions  of  the  object,  must  be  stated, 
otherwise  the  problem  is  imperfectly  given.  It  ought  not  to 
be  required  of  us  merely  to  draw  a  room  or  a  church  in  per- 
spective ;  but  to  draw  this  room  from  this  corner,  and  that 
church  on  that  spot,  in  perspective.  For  want  of  knowing 
how  to  base  their  drawings  on  the  measurement  and  place  of 
the  object  I  have  known  practised  students  represent  a  parish 
church,  certainly  in  true  perspective,  but  with  a  nave  about 
two  miles  and  a  half  long. 

It  is  true  that  in  drawing  landscapes  from  nature  the  sizes 

*  p  and  Q  being  points  indicative  of  the  place  of  the  tower's  base  and 
top.  In  this  figure  both  are  above  the  sight-line  ;  if  the  tower  were  below 
the  spectator  both  would  be  below  it,  and  therefore  measured  below  d. 


e,  to  the  right  (or  left)  of  the  spec- 
tator, still  the  apparent  height  of  the 
tower  on  a  b  will  be  as  s' t  to  e  t, 
which  is  the  same  ratio  as  that  of  s  t 
to  D  T. 


Now  in  many  perspective  prob- 
lems, the  position  of  an  object  is 
more  conveniently  expressed  by  the 
two  measurements  d  t  and  d  e,  than 
by  the  single  oblique  measurement 
e  t. 


Fig,  3. 


I  shall  call  d  t  the  "  direct  dis- 
tance "  of  the  object  at  e,  and  d  e  its 
"lateral  distance."  It  is  rather  a 
license  to  call  d  t  its  "  direct "  dis- 


INTRODUCTION. 


335 


and  distances  of  the  objects  cannot  be  accurately  known. 
When,  however,  we  know  how  to  draw  them  rightly,  if  their 
size  were  given,  we  have  only  to  assume  a  rational  approxima- 
tion to  their  size,  and  the  resulting  drawing  will  be  true 
enough  for  all  intents  and  purposes.  It  does  not  in  the  least 
matter  that  we  represent  a  distant  cottage  as  eighteen  feet 
long  when  it  is  in  realit}r  only  seventeen  ;  but  it  matters  much 
that  we  do  not  represent  it  as  eighty  feet  long,  as  we  easily 
might  if  we  had  not  been  accustomed  to  draw  from  measure- 
ment. Therefore,  in  all  the  following  problems  the  measure- 
ment of  the  object  is  given. 

The  student  must  observe,  however,  that  in  order  to  bring 
the  diagrams  into  convenient  compass,  the  measurements  as- 
sumed are  generally  very  different  from  any  likely  to  occur  in 
practice.  Thus,  in  Fig.  3.,  the  distance  d  s  would  be  prob- 
ably in  practice  half  a  mile  or  a  mile,  and  the  distance  t  s, 
from  the  eye  of  the  observer  to  the  paper,  only  two  or  three 
feet.  The  mathematical  law  is  however  precisely  the  same, 
whatever  the  proportions  ;  and  I  use  such  proportions  as  are 
best  calculated  to  make  the  diagram  clear. 

Now,  therefore,  the  conditions  of  a  perspective  problem  are 
the  following. 

The  Sight-line  o  h  given,  Fig.  1.; 

The  Sight-point  s  given  ; 

The  Station-point  t  given  ;  and 

The  three  distances  of  the  object,*  direct,  lateral,  and 
vertical,  with  its  dimensions,  given. 

The  size  of  the  picture,  conjecturally  limited  by  the  dotted 
circle,  is  to  be  determined  afterwrards  at  our  pleasure.  On 
these  conditions  I  proceed  at  once  to  construction. 

*  More  accurately,  "the  three  distances  of  any  point,  eithei  in  th6 
object  itself,  or  indicative  of  its  distance." 


336 


TEE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


PKOBLEM  L 

TO  FIX  THE  POSITION  OF  A  GIVEN  POINT1.  * 


c  p 


p 

?  H 

Gr  \ 

P' 

T 

Fig.  4. 


Let  p,  Fig.  4.,  be  the  given  point. 

Let  its  direct  distance  be  d  t  ;  its  lateral  distance  to  the 
left,  d  c  ;  and  vertical  distance  beneath  the  eye  of  the  ob- 
server, c  p. 

[Let  g  h  be  the  Sight-line,  s  the  Sight-point,  and  t  the 
Station-point.]  f 

*  More  accurately,  "To  fix  on  the  plane  of  the  picture  the  apparent 
position  of  a  point  given  in  actual  position."  In  the  headings  of  all  the 
following  problems  the  words  "  on  the  plane  of  the  picture  "  are  to  be 
understood  after  the  words  "  to  draw."  The  plane  of  the  picture  means 
a  surface  extended  indefinitely  in  the  direction  of  the  picture. 

f  The  sentence  within  brackets  will  not  be  repeated  in  succeeding 
statements  of  problems.    It  is  always  to  be  understood. 


TO  FIX  THE  POSITION  OF  A  GIVEN  POINT. 


337 


It  is  required  to  fix  on  the  plane  of  the  picture  the  position 
of  the  point  p. 


Arrange  the  three  distances  of  the  object  on  your  paper,  as 
in  Fig.  4* 

Join  c  t,  cutting  g  h  in  q. 

From  q  let  fall  the  vertical 
line  q  p'. 

Join  p  t,  cutting  q  p  in  p\ 

p'  is  the  point  required. 

If  the  point  p  is  above  the 
eye  of  the  observer  instead  of 
below  it,  c  p  is  to  be  measured 
upwards  from  c,  and  q  p'  drawn 
upwards  from  q.  The  con- 
struction will  be  as  in  Fig.  5. 

And  if  the  point  p  is  to  the 
right  instead  of  the  left  of  the 
observer,  d  c  is  to  be  measured 
to  the  right  instead  of  the  left. 

The  Figures  4.  and  5.,  look- 
ed at  in  a  mirror,  will  show 
the  construction  of  each,  on 
that  supposition. 

Now  read  very  carefully  the 
examples  and  notes  to  this  problem  in  Appendix  I.  (page  63). 
I  have  put  them  in  the  Appendix  in  order  to  keep  the 
sequence  of  following  problems  more  clearly  traceable  here  in 
the  text ;  but  you  must  read  the  first  Appendix  before  going 
on. 

*  In  order  to  be  able  to  do  this,  you  must  assume  the  distances  to  be 
small ;  as  in  the  case  of  some  object  on  the  table  :  how  large  distances 
are  to  be  treated  you  will  see  presently  ;  the  mathematical  principle, 
being  the  same  for  all,  is  best  illustrated  first  on  a  small  scale.  Suppose, 
for  instance,  p  to  be  the  corner  of  a  book  on  the  table,  seven  inches  be- 
low the  eye,  five  inches  to  the  left  of  it,  and  a  foot  and  a  half  in  advance- 
of  it,  and  that  you  mean  to  hold  your  finished  drawing  at  six  inches  from 
the  eye  ;  then  T  s  will  be  six  inches,  t  D  a  foot  and  a  half,  D  c  fiva 
inches,  and  c  p  seven. 


338 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


PROBLEM  H. 

TO  DRAW  A  RIGHT  LINE  BETWEEN  TWO  GIVEN  POINTS , 


c  iy 


T 


Fig.  6. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  6.,  be  the  given  right  line,  joining  the  given 
points  a  and  b. 

Let  the  direct,  lateral,  and  vertical  distances  of  the  point 
a  be  t  d,  d  c,  and  c  a. 

Let  the  direct,  lateral,  and  vertical  distances  of  the  point  b 
be  t  d',  d  c',  and  c'  b. 

Then,  by  Problem  I.,  the  position  of  the  point  a  on  the 
plane  of  the  picture  is  a. 

And  similarly,  the  position  of  the  point  b  on  the  plane  of 
the  picture  is  b. 

Join  a  b. 

Then  a  b  is  the  line  required. 


BIGHT  LINE  BETWEEN  GIVEN  POINTS.  339 


COROLLARY  L 

If  tne  line  a  b  is  in  a  plane  parallel  to  that  of  the  picture, 
one  end  of  the  line  a  b  must  be  at  the  same  direct  distance 
from  the  eye  of  the  observer  as  the  other. 

Therefore,  in  that  case,  d  t  is  equal  to  d' t. 

C  CD 


S 


T 

Fig.  7. 

Then  the  construction  will  be  as  in  Fig.  7-.  ;  and  the  stu- 
dent will  find  experimentally  that  a  b  is  now  parallel  to  a  b.* 
And  that  a  b  is  to  a  b  as  t  s  is  to  t  d. 

Therefore,  to  draw  any  line  in  a  plane  parallel  to  that  of  the 
picture,  we  have  only  to  fix  the  position  of  one  of  its  extremi- 
ties, a  or  b,  and  then  to  draw  from  a  or  b  a  line  parallel  to  the 
given  line,  bearing  the  proportion  to  it  that  t  s  bears  to  t  d. 

*  For  by  the  construction  at:  a  T  :  :  b  T :  b  T  ;  and  therefore  the 
two  triangles  ABT,a&T,  (having  a  common  angle  A  T  B, )  are  similar. 


340 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


COROLLARY  II. 

If  the  line  a  b  is  in  a  horizontal  plane,  the  vertical  distance 
of  one  of  its  extremities  must  be  the  same  as  that  of  the  other. 
Therefore,  in  that  case,  a  c  equals  b  c'  (Fig.  6.), 
And  the  construction  is  as  in  Fig.  8. 


B 

s 

V 

if' 

T 

Fig.  3. 


In  Fig.  8.  produce  a  b  to  the  sight-line,  cutting  the  sight- 
line  in  v  ;  the  point  v,  thus  determined,  is  called  the  Vanish- 
ing-Point of  the  line  a  b. 

Join  t  v.  Then  the  student  will  find  experimentally  that 
t  v  is  parallel  tor  a  b.* 


COROLLARY  III. 

If  the  line  a  b  produced  would  pass  through  some  point 
beneath  or  above  the  station-point,  c  d  is  to  d  t  as  c' d'  is  to 
d' t  ;  in  which  case  the  point  c  coincides  with  the  point  c\ 
and  the  line  a  b  is  vertical. 

*  The  demonstration  is  in  Appendix  II.  Article  I. 


VANISHING-POINT  OF  HORIZONTAL  PLANE.  341 


Therefore  every  vertical  line  in  a  picture  is,  or  may  be,  the 
perspective  representation  of  a  horizontal  one  which,  pro- 
duced, would  pass  beneath  the  feet  or  above  the  head  of  the 
spectator.* 


PEOBLEM  IIL 

TO  FIND  THE  VANISHING-POINT  OF  A  GIVEN  HORIZONTAL  LINE. 


B 


K 


T 


Fig.  9. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  9.,  be  the  given  line. 

From  t,  the  station-point,  draw  t  v  parallel  to  a  b,  cutting 
the  sight-line  in  v. 

V  is  the  Vanishing-point  required,  f 

*  The  reflection  in  water  of  any  luminous  point  or  isolated  object 
(such  as  the  sun  or  moon)  is  therefore,  in  perspective,  a  vertical  line  ; 
since  such  reflection,  if  produced,  would  pass  under  the  feet  of  the 
spectator.  Many  artists  (Claude  among  the  rest)  knowing  something  of 
optics,  but  nothing  of  perspective,  have  been  led  occasionally  to  draw 
such  reflections  towards  a  point  at  the  centre  of  the  base  of  the  picture. 

f  The  student  will  observe,  in  practice,  that,  his  paper  lying  flat  on 
the  table,  he  has  only  to  draw  the  line  T  v  on  its  horizontal  surface, 
parallel  to  the  given  horizontal  line  A  B.  In  theory,  the  paper  should 
be  vertical,  but  the  station-line  s  T  horizontal  (see  its  definition  above, 


342  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


COROLLARY  I. 

As,  if  the  point  b  is  first  found,  v  may  be  determined  by  it, 
so,  if  the  point  v  is  first  found,  b  may  be  determined  by  it. 
For  let  a  b,  Fig.  10.,  be  the  given  line,  constructed  upon  the 


B 


T 

Fig.  10. 


paper  as  in  Fig.  8.  ;  and  let  it  be  required  to  draw  the  line 
a  b  without  using  the  point  c'. 

Find  the  position  of  the  point  a  in  a.    (Problem  I.) 

page  13.)  ;  in  which  case  T  v,  being  drawn  parallel  to  A  B,  will  be 
horizontal  also,  and  still  cut  the  sight-line  in  v. 

The  construction  will  be  seen  to  be  founded  on  the  second  Corollary 
of  the  preceding  problem. 

It  is  evident  that  if  any  other  line,  as  M  N  in  Fig.  9. ,  parallel  to  A  B, 
occurs  in  the  picture,  the  line  T  v,  drawn  from  T,  parallel  to  M  N,  to  find 
the  vanishing-point  of  M  N,  will  coincide  with  the  line  drawn  from  t, 
parallel  to  A  B,  to  find  the  vanishing-point  of  A  b. 

Therefore  A  B  and  M  N  will  have  the  same  vanishing-point. 

Therefore  all  parallel  horizontal  lines  have  the  same  vanishing-point. 

It  will  be  shown  hereafter  that  all  parallel  inclined  lines  also  have  the 


RIGHT  LINE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE.  343 

Find  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b  in  v.    (Problem  III.) 
Join  a  v. 

Join  b  t,  cutting  a  v  in  b. 
Then  a  6  is  the  line  required.* 


COROLLARY  II. 

We  have  hitherto  proceeded  on  the  supposition  that  the 
given  line  was  small  enough,  and  near  enough  to  be  actually 
drawn  on  our  paper  of  its  real  size  ;  as  in  the  example  given 
in  Appendix  I.  We  may,  however,  now  deduce  a  construction 
available  under  all  circumstances,  whatever  may  be  the  dis- 
tance and  length  of  the  line  given. 

From  Fig.  8.  remove,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  the  lines  c' d', 
b  v,  and  t  v ;  and,  taking  the  figure  as  in  Fig.  11.,  draw  from 
a,  the  line  a  r  parallel  to  a  b,  cutting  b  t  in  r. 

Then  a  r  is  to  a  b  as  a  t  is  to  a  t. 

—  —  as  c  t  is  to  c  t. 

—  —  as  t  s  is  to  T  D. 

That  is  to  say,  a  r  is  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  b.  \ 
Therefore,  when  the  position  of  the  point  a  is  fixed  in  a,  as 
in  Fig.  12.,  and  a  v  is  drawn  to  the  vanishing-point ;  if  we 
draw  a  line  a  r  from  a,  parallel  to  a  b,  and  make  a  r  equal  to 
the  sight-magnitude  of  a  b,  and  then  join  r  t,  the  line  r  t 
will  cut  a  v  in  b. 

same  vanishing-point ;  the  student  may  here  accept  the  general  con- 
clusion— "  All  parallel  lines  have  the  same  vanishing-point." 

It  is  also  evident  that  if  A  b  is  parallel  to  the  plane  of  the  picture,  t  v 
must  be  drawn  parallel  to  G  H,  and  will  therefore  never  cut  G  H.  The 
line  A  b  has  in  that  case  no  vanishing-point :  it  is  to  be  drawn  by  the 
construction  given  in  Fig.  7. 

It  is  also  evident  that  if  A  B  is  at  right  angles  with  the  plane  of  the 
picture,  T  V  will  coincide  with  T  s,  and  the  vanishing-point  of  A  B  will 
be  the  sight-point. 

*  I  spare  the  student  the  formality  of  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  which 
would  be  necessary  to  prove  this. 

f  For  definition  of  Sight-Magnitude,  see  Appendix  I.  It  ought  to 
have  been  read  before  the  student  comes  to  this  problem  ;  but  I  refer 
to  it  in  case  it  has  not. 


344 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PEBSPECTIVE. 


EIGHT  LINE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 


345 


So  that,  in  order  to  determine  the  length  of  a  h,  we  need 
not  draw  the  long  and  distant  line  a  b,  but  only  a  r  paral- 
lel to  it,  and  of  its  sight-magnitude  ;  which  is  a  great  gain, 
for  the  line  a  b  may  be  two  miles  long,  and  the  line  a  r 
perhaps  only  two  inches. 


COROLLARY  III. 

In  Fig.  12.,  altering  its  proportions  a  little  for  the  sake  of 
clearness,  and  putting  it  as  here  in  Fig.  13,,  draw  a  horizontal 
line  a  r'  and  make  a  r'  equal  to  a  r. 

M  S  V 


T 

Fig.  13. 

Through  the  points  r  and  b  draw  r' m,  cutting  the  sight-line 
in  m.  Join  t  v.  Now  the  reader  will  find  experimentally  that 
v  m  is  equal  to  v  t.* 

Hence  it  follows  that,  if  from  the  vanishing-point  v  we  lay  off 
on  the  sight-line  a  distance,v  m,  equal  to  v  t;  then  draw  through 
a  a  horizontal  line  a  r',  make  a  r'  equal  to  the  sight-magnitude 
of  a  b  and  join  r' m  ;  the  line  r'  m  will  cut  a  v  in  b.  And  this 
is  in  practice  generally  the  most  convenient  way  of  obtaining 
the  length  of  a  b. 

*  The  demonstration  is     Appendix  II,  Article  II.  p.  90 


346 


TEE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


COROLLARY  IV. 

Removing  from  the  preceding  figure  the  unnecessary  lines, 
and  retaining  only  r' m  and  a  v,  as  in  Fig.  14.,  produce  the  line 
a  r'  to  the  other  side  of  a,  and  make  a  x  equal  to  a  r'. 

Join  x  b9  and  produce  x  b  to  cut  the  line  of  sight  in  n. 

M  V  N 


X  a  R' 

Fig.  14. 

Then  as  x  r'  is  parallel  to  m  n,  and  a  b!  is  equal  to  a  x,  v  n 
must,  by  similar  triangles,  be  equal  to  v  m  (equal  to  v  t  in 
Fig.  13.). 

Therefore,  on  whichever  side  of  v  we  measure  the  distance 
v  t,  so  as  to  obtain  either  the  point  m,  or  the  point  n,  if  we 
measure  the  sight-magnitude  a  r'  or  a  x  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  line  a  v,  the  line  joining  r' m  or  x  n  will  equally  cut  a 
vin  b. 

The  points  m  and  n  are  called  the  "  Dividing-Points  "  of  the 
original  line  a  b  (Fig.  12.),  and  we  resume  the  results  of  these 
corollaries  in  the  following  three  problems. 


PROBLEM  IV. 

TO  FIND  THE  DIVIDING -POINTS  OF  A  GIVEN  HORIZONTAL  LINE. 

Let  the  horizontal  line  a  b  (Fig.  15.)  be  given  in  position  and! 
magnitude.    It  is  required  to  find  its  dividing-points. 
Find  the  vanishing-point  v  of  the  line  a  b. 


GI  VEN  LINE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE.  347 

With  centre  v  and  distance  v  t,  describe  circle  cutting  the 
sight-line  in  m  and  n. 

Then  m  and  n  are  the  dividing-points  required. 

In  general,  only  one  dividing-point  is  needed  for  use  with 
any  vanishing-point,  namely,  the  one  nearest  s  (in  this  case  the 
point  m).  But  its  opposite  n,  or  both,  may  be  needed  under 
certain  circumstances. 


TO  DRAW  A  HORIZONTAL  LINE,  GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE, 
BY  MEANS  OF  ITS  SIGHT-MAGNITUDE  AND  DIVIDING-POINTkS, 

Let  ab  (Fig.  16.)  be  the  given  line. 
Find  the  position  of  the  point  a  in  a. 

Find  the  vanishing-point  v,  and  most  convenient  dividing- 
point,  m,  of  the  line  a  b. 
Join  a  v. 

Through  a  draw  a  horizontal  line  a  V  and  make  a  V 
equal  to  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  b»  Join  b' m,  cutting 
a  v  in  b. 

Then  a  6  is  the  line  required. 


Fig.  15. 


PKOBLEM  V. 


348 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


GIVEN  LINE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE.  349 


COROLLARY  L 

Supposing  it  were  now  required  to  draw  a  line  a  c  (Fig.  17.) 
twice  as  long  as  a  b,  it  is  evident  that  the  sight-magnitude 
a  c'  must  be  twice  as  long  as  the  sight-magnitude  a  b1 ;  we 
have,  therefore,  merely  to  continue  the  horizontal  line  a  b\ 
make  b  d  equal  to  a  b\  join  c  m',  cutting  a  v  in  c,  and  a  c  will 
be  the  line  required.  Similarly,  if  we  have  to  draw  a  line 
a  d,  three  times  the  length  of  a  b,  a  d'  must  be  three  times 
the  length  of  a  b',  and  joining  d' m,  a  d  will  be  the  line  re- 
quired. 

The  student  will  observe  that  the  nearer  the  portions  cut 
off,  be,  cd,  &c,  approach  the  point  v,  the  smaller  they  be- 
come ;  and,  whatever  lengths  may  be  added  to  the  line  a  d, 
and  successively  cut  off  from  a  v,  the  line  a  v  will  never  be 
cut  off  entirely,  but  the  portions  cut  off  will  become  infinitely 
small,  and  apparently  "  vanish"  as  they  approach  the  point  v : 
hence  this  point  is  .called  the  "  vanishing  "  point. 


COROLLARY  II. 

It  is  evident  that  if  the  line  a  d  had  been  given  originally, 
and  we  had  been  required  to  draw  it,  and  divide  it  into  three 
equal  parts,  we  should  have  had  only  to  divide  its  sight-mag- 
nitude, a  d',  into  the  three  equal  parts,  a  b',  b'  c',  and  e'  d\  and 
then,  drawing  to  m  from  bf  and  c\  the  line  a  d  would  have  been 
divided  as  required  in  b  and  c.  And  supposing  the  original 
line  a  d  be  divided  irregularly  into  any  number  of  parts,  if  the 
line  a  df  be  divided  into  a  similar  number  in  the  same  pro-  " 
portions  (by  the  construction  given  in  Appendix  I),  and, 
from  these  points  of  division,  lines  are  drawn  to  m,  they  will 
divide  the  line  a  d  in  true  perspective  into  a  similar  number 
of  proportionate  parts. 

The  horizontal  line  drawn  through  a,  on  which  the  sight- 
magnitudes  are  measured,  is  called  the  "  Measuring-line." 

And  the  line  a  d,  when  properly  divided  in  b  and  c,  or  any 


350  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


other  required  points,  is  said  to  be  divided  "in  perspective 
ratio  "  to  the  divisions  of  the  original  line  a  d. 

If  the  line  a  v  is  above  the  sight-line  instead  of  beneath  it, 
the  measuring-line  is  to  be  drawn  above  also :  and  the  lines  b' m, 
c' m,  &c.,  drawn  down  to  the  dividing-point.  Turn  Fig.  17. 
upside  down,  and  it  will  show  the  construction. 


PEOBLEM  tt 

TO  DRAW  ANY  TRIANGLE,  GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE,  IN 
A  HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 


c 


V  V 


T 


Fig.  18. 

Let  abc  (Fig.  18.)  be  the  triangle. 

As  it  is  given  in  position  and  magnitude,  one  of  its  sides, 
at  least,  must  be  given  in  position  and  magnitude,  and  the 
directions  of  the  two  other  sides. 

Let  a  b  be  the  side  given  in  position  and  magnitude. 


RECTILINEAR  QUADRILATERAL  FIGURE.  35] 


Then  a  b  is  a  horizontal  line,  in  a  given  position,  and  of  a 
given  length. 

Draw  the  line  a  b.    (Problem  V.) 
Let  a  b  be  the  line  so  drawn. 

Find  v  and  v',  the  vanishing-points  respectively  of  the  lines 
a  c  and  b  c.    (Problem  III.) 

From  a  draw  a  v,  and  from  b,  draw  b  v',  cutting  each  other 
in  c. 

Then  a  b  c  is  the  triangle  required. 

If  a  c  is  the  line  originally  given,  a  c  is  the  line  which  must 
be  first  drawn,  and  the  line  v'  b  must  be  drawn  from  v'  to  c 
and  produced  to  cut  a  b  in  6.  Similarly,  if  b  c  is  given,  v  o 
must  be  drawn  to  c  and  produced,  and  a  b  from  its  vanishing- 
point  to  b,  and  produced  to  cut  a  c  in  a. 


PKOBLEM  VII. 

TO  DRAW    ANY  RECTILINEAR  QUADRILATERAL  FIGURE,    GIVEN  IN 
POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE,  IN  A  HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 


A 


Fig.  19. 

Let  a  b  c  d  (Fig.  19.)  be  the  given  figure. 

Join  any  two  of  its  opposite  angles  by  the  line  b  c. 

Draw  first  the  triangle  abc.    (Problem  VI.) 

And  then,  from  the  base  b  c,  the  two  lines  b  d,  c  d,  to  their 
vanishing-points,  which  will  complete  the  figure.  It  in  un- 
necessary to  give  a  diagram  of  the  construction,  which  is 
merely  that  of  Fig.  18.  duplicated  ;  another  triangle  being 
drawn  on  the  line  a  c  or  b  c. 


352 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


COROLLARY. 

It  is  evident  that  by  this  application  of  Problem  YL  any 
given  rectilinear  figure  whatever  in  a  horizontal  plane  may  be 
drawn,  since  any  such  figure  may  be  divided  into  a  number  of 
triangles,  and  the  triangles  then  drawn  in  succession. 

More  convenient  methods  may,  however,  be  generally  found, 
according  to  the  form  of  the  figure  required,  by  the  use  of 
succeeding  problems  ;  and  for  the  quadrilateral  figure  which 
occurs  most  frequently  in  practice,  namely,  the  square,  the 
following  construction  is  more  convenient  than  that  used  in 
the  present  problem. 


PROBLEM  VHI. 

TO  DRAW  A  SQUARE,   GIVEN    IN    POSITION  AND    MAGNITUDE,    IN  A 
HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 

Let  a  b  c  d  (Fig.  20.)  be  the  square. 

As  it  is  given  in  position  and  magnitude,  the  position  and 
magnitude  of  all  its  sides  are  given. 
Fix  the  position  of  the  point  a  in  a. 

Find  v,  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b  ;  and  m,  the  dividing- 
point  of  a  b,  nearest  s. 

Find  v',  the  vanishing-point  of  a  c  ;  and  n,  the  dividing- 
point  of  a  c,  nearest  s. 

Draw  the  measuring-line  through  a,  and  make  a  b\  a  c\ 
each  equal  to  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  b. 

(For  since  a  b  c  d  is  a  square,  a  c  is  equal  to  a  b.) 

DrawT  a  V  and  o'  n,  cutting  each  other  in  c. 

Draw  a  v,  and  bf  m,  cutting  each  other  in  b. 

Then  a  c,  a  b,  are  the  two  nearest  sides  of  the  square. 

Now,  clearing  the  figure  of  superfluous  lines,  we  have  a  6, 
a  c,  drawn  in  position,  as  in  Fig.  21. 

And  because  a  b  c  d  is  a  square,  c  d  (Fig.  20.)  is  parallel  to 

A  B. 


SQUARE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE.  353 


A 

M  S       N  V 


T 


T 


Fio.  31. 


354  TEE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 

And  all  parallel  lines  have  the  same  vanishing-point.  (Not6 
to  Problem  III.) 

Therefore,  v  is  the  vanishing-point  of  c  d. 

Similarly,  v'  is  the  vanishing-point  of  b  d. 

Therefore,  from  b  and  c  (Fig.  22.)  draw  b  v',  c  v,  cutting  each 
other  in  d. 

Then  a  b  c  d  is  the  square  required. 


COROLLARY  I. 

It  is  obvious  that  any  rectangle  in  a  horizontal  plane  may 
be  drawn  by  this  problem,  merely  making  a  b',  on  the  meas- 
uring-line, Fig.  20.,  equal  to  the  sight-magnitude  of  one  of  its 
sides,  and  a  c  the  sight-magnitude  of  the  other. 


COROLLARY  II. 


Let  abed,  Fig.  22.,  be  any  square  drawn  in  perspective. 
Draw  the  diagonals  a  d  and  b  c,  cutting  each  other  in  c.  Then 
g  c  is  the  centre  of  the 

b  f  square.    Through  c, 

5  draw  e  f  to  the  vanish- 
ing-point of  a  b,  and  g  h 
to  the  vanishing-point 
of  a  cy  and  these  lines 
will  bisect  the  sides  of 
the  square,  so  that  a  g  is 
the  perspective  representation  of  half  the  side  a  b  ;  a  e  is  half 
a  c  /  c  h  is  half  c  d  ;  and  bf  is  half  b  d. 


Fig.  22. 


COROLLARY  III. 

Since  a  b  c  d,  Fig.  20.,  is  a  square,  b  a  c  is  a  right  angle  ; 
and  as  t  v  is  parallel  to  a  b,  and  t  v'  to  a  c,  v' t  v  must  be  a 
right  angle  also. 

As  the  ground  plan  of  most  buildings  is  rectangular,  it  con- 
stantly happens  in  practice  that  their  angles  (as  the  corners 


SQUARE  PILLAR  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 


355 


of  ordinary  houses)  throw  the  lines  to  the  vanishing-points 
thus  at  right  angles  ;  and  so  that  this  law  is  observed,  and  v 
t  v'  is  kept  a  right  angle,  it  does  not  matter  in  general  practice 
whether  the  vanishing-points  are  thrown  a  little  more  or  a  little 
less  to  the  right  or  left  of  s ;  but  it  matters  much  that  the  re- 
lation of  the  vanishing-points  should  be  accurate.  Their  po- 
sition with  respect  to  s  merely  causes  the  spectator  to  see  a 
little  more  or  less  on  one  side  or  other  of  the  house,  which 
may  be  a  matter  of  chance  or  choice  ;  but  their  rectangular 
relation  determines  the  rectangular  shape  of  the  building, 
which  is  an  essential  point. 


PROBLEM  IX. 


TO  DRAW  A  SQUARE  PILLAR,  GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE,  ITS 
BASE  AND  TOP  BEING  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANES. 

Let  a  h,  Fig.  23,  be  the  ^ 
square  pillar. 

Then,  as  it  is  given  in  posi- 
tion and  magnitude,  the  posi- 
tion and  magnitude  of  the 
square  it  stands  upon  must 
be  given  (that  is,  the  line  a  b 
or  a  c  in  position),  and  the 
height  of  its  side  a  e. 

Find  the  sight-magnitudes 
of  a  b  and  a  e.  Draw  the  two 
sides  a  b,  a  c,  of  the  square  of  the  base,  by  Problem  VIII.,  as 
in  Fig.  24.  From  the  points  a,  b,  and  c,  raise  vertical  lines 
a  e,  c  f,  b  g. 

Make  a  e  equal  to  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  e. 

Now  because  the  top  and  base  of  the  pillar  are  in  horizontal 
planes,  the  square  of  its  top,  f  g,  is  parallel  to  the  square  of 
its  base,  b  c. 

Therefore  the  line  e  f  is  parallel  to  a  c,  and  e  g  to  a  b. 
Therefore  e  f  has  the  same  vanishing-point  as  a  c,  and  e  q 
the  same  vanishing-point  as  a  b. 


Fig.  24. 


356  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 

From  e  draw  e  fto  the  vanishing-point  of  a  c,  cutting  cf 
in/. 

Similarly  draw  e  g  to  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b,  cutting  b 
9  in  g. 

Complete  the  square  gfinh,  drawing  g  h  to  the  vanishing- 
point  of  e  /  and /  h  to  the  vanishing-point  of  e  g,  cutting 
each  other  in  h.    Then  a  g  h  f  is  the  square  pillar  required. 


COROLLARY. 

It  is  obvious  that  if  a  e  is  equal  to  a  c,  the  whole  figure  will 
be  a  cube,  and  each  side,  a  ef  c  and  a  e  g  b,  will  be  a  square 
in  a  given  vertical  plane.  And  by  making  a  b  or  a  c  longer 
or  shorter  in  any  given  proportion,  any  form  of  rectangle  may 
be  given  to  either  of  the  sides  of  the  pillar.  No  other  rule  is 
therefore  needed  for  drawing  squares  or  rectangles  in  vertical 
planes. 

Also  any  triangle  may  be  thus  drawn  in  a  vertical  plane,  by  en- 
closing it  in  a  rectangle  and  determining,  in  perspective  ratio, 
on  the  sides  of  the  rectangle,  the  points  of  their  contact  with 
the  angles  of  the  triangle. 

And  if  any  triangle,  then  any  polygon. 

A  less  complicated  construction  will,  however,  be  given 
hereafter.* 


PEOBLEM  X. 

TO  DRAW  A  PYRAMID,    GIVEN  IN    POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE,  ON  A 
SQUARE  BASE  IN  A  HORIZONTAL  PLANE. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  25.,  be  the  four-sided  pyramid.  As  it  is  given 
in  position  and  magnitude,  the  square  base  on  which  it  stands 
must  be  given  in  position  and  magnitude,  and  its  vertical 
height,  c  D.f 

*  See  page  86  (note),  after  you  have  read  Problem  XVI. 

f  If,  instead  of  the  vertical  height,  the  length  of  A  D  is  given,  the 
vertical  must  be  deduced  from  it.  See  the  Exercises  on  this  Problem 
in  the  Appendix,  p.  71. 


PYRAMID  ON  SQUARE  BASE. 


D£7 


Draw  a  square  pillar,  abge,  Fig.  26.,  on  the  square  base 
of  the  pyramid,  and  make  the  height  of  the  pillar  a  f  equal  to 
the  vertical  height  of  the  pyramid  c  d  (Problem  IX.),  Draw 

G 


Fig.  25.  Fig.  20. 


the  diagonals  g  f,  h  i,  on  the  top  of  the 
square  pillar,  cutting  each  other  in  c. 
Therefore  c  is  the  centre  of  the  square 
f  g  h  i.    (Prob.  VIIL  Cor.  II.) 

Join  C  E,  C  A,  C  B. 

Then  a  b  c  e  is  the  pyramid  required. 
If  the  base  of  the  pyramid  is  above  the 
eye,  as  when  a  square  spire  is  seen  on 
the  top  of  a  church-tower,  the  construc- 
tion will  be  as  in  Fig.  27. 


PKOBLEM  XL 

TO  DRAW  ANY  CURVE  IN  A  HORIZONTAL  OR  VERTICAL  PLANE. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  28.,  be  the  curve. 
Enclose  it  in  a  rectangle,  c  d  e  f. 

Fix  the  position  of  the  point  c  or  d,  and  draw  the  rectangle. 
(Problem  VHI.  Coroll.  I.)* 

*  Or  if  the  curve  is  in  a  vertical  plane,  Coroll.  to  Problem  IX.  As 
a  rectangle  may  be  drawn  in  any  position  round  any  given  curve,  its 
position  with  respect  to  the  curve  will  in  either  case  be  regulated  by  con- 
venience.   See  the  Exercises  on  this  Problem  in  the  Appendix,  p.  76. 


358  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Let  c  d  e  f,  Fig.  29.,  be  the  rectangle  so  drawn. 
If  an  extremity  of  the  curve,  as  a,  is  in  a  side  of  the  rec- 
tangle, divide  the  side  c  e,  Fig.  29.,  so  that  a  c  shall  be  (in  per- 
spective ratio)  to  a  e  as  a  c  is 
to  a  e  in  Fig.  28.  (Prob.  V. 

Cor.  n.) 

Similarly  determine  ihe 
points  of  contact  of  the  curve 
and  rectangle,  e,f}  g. 

If  an  extremity  of  the  curve, 
as  b,  is  not  in  a  side  of  the  rec- 
tangle, let  fall  the  perpendicu- 
lars b  a,  b  b  on  the  rectangle 
sides.     Determine  the  corre- 
spondent points  a  and  b  in 
Fig.  29.,  as  you  have  already 
determined  a,  b,  e,  and  f. 
From  b,  Fig.  29.,  draw  b  b  parallel  to  c  d,*  and  from  a  draw 
a  b  to  the  vanishing-point  of  d  f,  cutting  each  other  in  b.  Then 
b  is  the  extremity  of  the  curve. 

Determine  any  other  important  point  in  the  curve,  as  p,  in 
the  same  way,  by  letting  fall  p  q  and 
p  r  on  the  rectangle's  sides. 

Any  number  of  points  in  the  curve 
may  be  thus  determined,  and  the 
curve  drawn  through  the  series  ;  in 
most  cases,  three  or  four  will  be 
enough.  Practically,  complicated 
curves  may  be  better  drawn  in  per- 
spective by  an  experienced  eye  than  by  rule,  as  the  fixing  of 
the  various  points  in  haste  involves  too  many  chances  of  error  ; 
but  it  is  well  to  draw  a  good  many  by  rule  first,  in  order  to 
give  the  eye  its  experience. f 

*  Or  to  its  vanishing-point,  if  C  D  has  one. 

f  Of  course,  by  dividing  the  original  rectangle  into  any  number  of 
equal  rectangles,  and  dividing  the  perspective  rectangles  similarly,  the 
curve  may  be  approximately  drawn  without  any  trouble  ;  but,  when 
accuracy  is  required,  the  points  should  be  fixed,  as  in  the  problem. 


CURVE  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANE, 


359 


COROLLARY. 

If  the  curve  required  be  a  circle,  Fig.  30.,  the  rectangle 
which  encloses  it  will  become  a  square,  and  the  curve  will 
have  four  points  of  contact,  a  b  o  d,  jj 
in  the  middle  of  the  sides  of  the 
square. 

Draw  the  square,  and  as  a  square 
may  be  drawn  about  a  circle  in  any  C 
position,  draw  it  with  its  nearest 
side,  e  g,  parallel  to  the  sight-line. 

Let  e  f,  Fig.  31.,  be  the  square  so 
drawn.  E  A  G 

Draw  its  diagonals  e  f,  g  h  ;  and 
through  the  centre  of  the  square  (determined  by  their  inter- 
section) draw  a  b  to  the  vanishing-point  of  g  f,  and  c  d  parallel 


HP'       B         Q'  P 


Fig.  31. 


to  e  g.  Then  the  points  abcd  are  the  four  points  of  the 
circle's  contact. 

On  e  g  describe  a  half  square,  e  l  ;  draw  the  semicircle  v 
a  l  ;  and  from  its  centre,  b,  the  diagonals  r  e,  r  g,  cutting  the 
circle  in  x,  y. 


360 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


From  the  points  x  y,  where  the  circle  cuts  the  diagonals, 
raise  perpendiculars,  p  x,  q  y,  to  e  g. 

From  p  and  q  draw  p  p',  q  q',  to  the  vanishing-point  of  g  f, 
cutting  the  diagonals  in  m,  n,  and  o,  p. 

Then  m,  n,  o,  p  are  four  other  points  in  the  circle. 

Through  these  eight  points  the  circle  may  be  drawn  by  the 
hand  accurately  enough  for  general  purposes  ;  but  any  number 
of  points  required  may,  of  course,  be  determined,  as  in  Prob- 
lem XL 

The  distance  e  p  is  approximately  one  seventh  of  e  g,  and 
may  be  assumed  to  be  so  in  quick  practice,  as  the  error  in- 
volved is  not  greater  than  would  be  incurred  in  the  hasty 
operation  of  drawing  the  circle  and  diagonals. 

It  may  frequently  happen  that,  in  consequence  of  associated 
constructions,  it  may  be  inconvenient  to  draw  e  g  parallel  to 
the  sight-line,  the  square  being  perhaps  first  constructed  in 
some  oblique  direction.  In  such  cases,  q  g  and  e  p  must  be 
determined  in  perspective  ratio  by  the  dividing-point,  the  line 
e  g  being  used  as  a  measuring-line. 

[Obs.  In  drawing  Fig.  31.  the  station-point  has  been  taken 
much  nearer  the  paper  than  is  usually  advisable,  in  order  to 
show  the  character  of  the  curve  in  a  very  distinct  form. 

If  the  student  turns  the  book  so  that  e  g  may  be  vertical, 
Fig.  31.  will  represent  the  construction  for  drawing  a  circle  in 
a  vertical  plane,  the  sight-line  being  then  of  course  parallel  to 
g  l  ;  and  the  semicircles  adb,acb,  on  each  side  of  the  diam- 
eter a  b,  will  represent  ordinary  semicircular  arches  seen  in 
perspective.  In  that  case,  if  the  book  be  held  so  that  the  line 
eh  is  the  top  of  the  square,  the  upper  semicircle  will  repre- 
sent a  semicircular  arch,  above  the  eye,  drawn  in  perspective. 
But  if  the  book  be  held  so  that  the  line  g  f  is  the  top  of  the 
square,  the  upper  semicircle  will  represent  a  semicircular  arch, 
below  the  eye,  drawn  in  perspective. 

If  the  book  be  turned  upside  down,  the  figure  will  repre- 
sent a  circle  drawn  on  the  ceiling,  or  any  other  horizontal 
plane  above  the  eye  :  ana  tne  construction  is,  of  course,  ac- 
cumte  in  every  case.] 


DIVISION  OF  CIRCLE  INTO  EQUAL  PARTS.  381 


PEOBLEM  XII 

TO  DIVIDE  A  CIRCLE  DRAWN   IN  PERSPECTIVE  INTO  ANY  GIVEN  NUM- 
BER OF   EQUAL  PARTS. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  32.,  be  the  circle  drawn  in  perspective.  It  is 
required  to  divide  it  into  a  given  number  of  equal  parts  ;  in 
this  case,  20. 

Let  k  a  l  be  the  semicircle  used  in  the  construction.  Divide 
the  semicircle  k  a  l  into  half  the  number  of  parts  required  ; 
in  this  case,  10. 

Produce  the  line  e  g  laterally,  as  far  as  may  be  necessary. 

From  o,  the  centre  of  the  semicircle  k  a  l,  draw  radii 
through  the  points  of  division  of  the  semicircle,  p,  q,  r,  &c, 
and  produce  them  to  cut  the  Hne  e  g  in  p,  q,  r,  &c. 

From  the  points  pqe  draw  the  lines  p  p',  qq',  r  r',  &c, 
through  the  centre  of  the  circle  a  b,  each  cutting  the  circle  in 
two  points  of  its  circumference. 

Then  these  points  divide  the  perspective  circle  as  required. 

If  from  each  of  the  points  p,  q,  r,  a  vertical  were  raised  to 
the  line  e  g,  as  in  Fig.  31.,  and  from  the  point  wrhere  it  cut 
e  g  a  line  were  drawn  to  the  vanishing-point,  as  q  q'  in  Fig.  31., 
this  line  would  also  determine  two  of  the  points  of  division. 

If  it  is  required  to  divide  a  circle  into  any  number  of  given 
imequal  parts  (as  in  the  points  a,  b,  c,  Fig.  33.),  the  shortest 
way  is  thus  to  raise  vertical  lines  from  a  and  b  to  the  side  of  the 
perspective  square  x  y,  and  then  draw  to  the  vanishing-point, 
cutting  the  perspective  circle  in  a  and  6,  the  points  required. 
Only  notice  that  if  any  point,  as  a,  is  on  the  nearer  side  of  the 
circle  a  b  c,  its  representative  point,  a,  must  be  on  the  nearer 
side  of  the  circle  a  b  c,  and  if  the  point  b  is  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  circle  a  b  c,  b  must  be  on  the  farther  side  of  a  b  c.  If 
any  point,  as  c,  is  so  much  in  the  lateral  arc  of  the  circle  as  not 
to  be  easily  determinable  by  the  vertical  line,  draw  the  hori- 
zontal c  p,  find  the  correspondent  p  in  the  side  of  the  per* 


362  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


SQUARE  WITHIN  SQUARE. 


363 


spective  square,  and  draw  p  c  parallel  to  x  y,  cutting  the  per- 
spective circle  in  c. 


It  is  obvious  that  if  the  points  p',  q',  r,  &c,  by  which  the 
circle  is  divided  in  Fig.  32.,  be  joined  by  right  lines,  the  re- 
sulting figure  will  be  a  regular  equilateral  figure  of  twenty 
sides  inscribed  in  the  circle.  And  if  the  circle  be  divided  into 
given  unequal  parts,  and  the  points  of  division  joined  by  right 
lines,  the  resulting  figure  will  be  an  irregular  polygon  inscribed 
in  the  circle  with  sides  of  given  length. 

Thus  any  polygon,  regular  or  irregular,  inscribed  in  a  cir- 
cle, may  be  inscribed  in  position  in  a  perspective  circle. 


TO  DRAW  A  SQUARE,  GIVEN  IN  MAGNITUDE,  WITHIN  A  LARGER  SQUARE 
GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE  ;  THE  SIDES  OF  THE  TWO 
SQUARES  BEING  PARALLEL. 

Let  a  b,  Pig  34.,  be  the  sight-magnitude  of  the  side  of  the 
smaller  square,  and  a  c  that  of  the  side  of  the  larger  square. 
Draw  the  larger  square.   Let  d  e  t  g  be  the  square  so  drawa 


Fig*.  33. 


COROLLARY. 


PKOBLEM  XIII. 


364 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Join  e  g  and  d  f. 

On  either  d  e  or  d  g  set  off,  in  perspective  ratio,  d  h 

^  g  g  equal  to  one-half  of  b  c. 

Through  h  draw  hk  to 
the  vanishing-point  of  d 
e,  cutting  d  f  in  i  and  e 
g  in  k.  Through  i "  and 
k  draw  i  m,  k  l,  to  van- 
ishing-point of  d  g,  cut- 
1>  ting  d  f  in  l  and  e  g  in 

Fig.  34.  M.     Join  L  M. 

Then  i  k  l  m  is  the  smaller  square,  inscribed  as  required.* 


COROLLARY. 

If,  instead  of  one  square  within  another,  it  be  required  to 
draw  one  circle  within  another,  the  dimensions  of  both  being 
given,  enclose  each  circle  in  a  square.  Draw  the  squares  first, 
and  then  the  circles  within,  as  in  Fig.  36. 


Fig.  36. 


*  If  either  of  the  sides  of  the  greater  square  is  parallel  to  the  plane  of 
the  picture,  as  dg  in  Fig.  35.  D  G  of  course  must  be  equal  to  A  c,  and 
ii  H  equal  to  B^  and  the  construction  is  as  in  Fig.  35. 


E  F 


Fig.  36. 


TRUNCATED  CONE. 


365 


PROBLEM  XIV. 

TO  DRAW  A  TRUNCATED  CIRCULAR  CONE,  GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAG- 
NITUDE, THE  TRUNCATIONS  BEING  IN  HORIZONTAL  PLANES,  AND  THE 
AXIS  OF  THE  CONE  VERTICAL. 


Let  a  b  c  d,  Fig.  37,,  be  the  portion  of  the  cone  required. 

As  it  is  given  in  magnitude,  its  diameters  must  be  given  at 
the  base  and  summit,  a  b  and  c  d  ;  and  its  vertical  height,  ce,* 

And  as  it  is  given  in  position,  the  centre  of  its  base  must 
be  given. 

Draw  in  position  about  this  centre, f  the  square  pillar  afd, 
Fig.  38.,  making  its  height,  b  g,  equal  to  c  e  ;  and  its  side,  a  b, 
equal  to  a  b. 

In  the  square  of  its  base,  abed,  inscribe  a  circle,  which 
therefore  is  of  the  diameter  of  the  base  of  the  cone,  a  b. 

*  Or  if  the  length  of  its  side,  A  c,  is  given  instead,  take  a  e,  Fig. 
87. ,  equal  to  half  the  excess  of  A  B  over  c  d  ;  from  the  point  e  raise  the 
perpendicular  c  e.  With  centre  a,  and  distance  a  c,  describe  a  circle 
cutting  c  e  in  c.  Then  c  e  is  the  vertical  height  of  the  portion  of  cone 
required,  or  c  E. 

f  The  direction  of  the  side  of  the  square  will  of  course  be  regulated 
by  convenience. 


366  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


In  the  square  of  its  top,  efgh,  inscribe  concentrically  a 
circle  whose  diameter  shall  equal  c  d.    (Coroll.  Prob.  XUL) 
Join  the  extremities  of  the  circles  by  the  right  lines  kl,nm. 
Then  hi  n  m  is  the  portion  of  cone  required. 


COROLLARY  I. 

If  similar  polygons  be  inscribed  in  similar  positions  in  the 
circles  h  n  and  /  m  (Coroll.  Prob.  XII),  and  the  correspond- 
ing angles  of  the  polygons  joined  by  right  lines,  the  resulting 

figure  will  be  a  portion  of  a 
polygonal  pyramid.    (The  dot- 
7i    ted  lines  in  Fig.  38.,  connect- 
ing the  extremities  of  two  di- 
ameters and  one  diagonal  in 
the  respective  circles,  occupy 
the  position  of  the  three  near- 
d   est  angles  of  a  regular  octago- 
nal pyramid,  having  its  angles 
set  on  the  diagonals  and  di- 
b  ameters  of  the  square  a  d,  en- 

FlG* 38#  closing  its  base.) 

If  the  cone  or  polygonal  pyramid  is  not  truncated,  its  apex 
will  be  the  centre  of  the  upper  square,  as  in  Fig.  26. 


COROLLARY  II. 

If  equal  circles,  or  equal  and  similar  polygons,  be  inscribed 
in  the  upper  and  lower  squares  in  Fig.  38.,  the  resulting 
figure  will  be  a  vertical  cylinder,  or  a  vertical  polygonal  pillar, 
of  given  height  and  diameter,  drawn  in  position. 


COROLLARY  III. 

If  the  circles  in  Fig.  38.,  instead  of  being  inscribed  in  the 
squares  b  c  and  /  g,  be  inscribed  in  the  sides  of  the  solid  figure 


INCLINED  LINES. 


367 


b  e  and  d  f,  those  sides  being  made  square,  and  the  line  b  d  of 
any  given  length,  the  resulting  figure  will  be,  according  to 
the  constructions  employed,  a  cone,  polygonal  pyramid,  cylin- 
der, or  polygonal  pillar,  drawn  in  position  about  a  horizontal 
axis  parallel  to  b  d. 

Similarly,  if  the  circles  are  drawn  in  the  sides  g  d  and  e  c, 
the  resulting  figures  will  be  described  about  a  horizontal  axis 
parallel  to  a  6. 


PROBLEM  XV. 


TO  DKAW  AN  INCLINED  LINE,  GIVEN  IN  POSITION  AND  MAGNITUDE. 


We  have  hitherto  been  examining  the  conditions  of  hori- 
zontal and  vertical  lines  only,  or  of  curves  enclosed  in  rec- 
tangles. 

We  must,  in  conclusion,  investigate  the  perspective  of  in- 
clined lines,  beginning  with  a  single  one  given  in  position. 
For  the  sake  of  completeness  of  system,  I  give  in  Appendix 
II.  Article  m.  the  development  of  this  problem  from  the 
second.  But,  in  practice,  the  position  of  an  inclined  line  may 
be  most  conveniently  defined  by  considering  it  as  the  diagonal 
of  a  rectangle,  as  a  b  in  Fig.  39.,  and  I  shall  therefore,  though 
at  some  sacrifice  of  system,  examine  it  here  under  that  con- 
dition. 

If  the  sides  of  the  rectangle  a  c  and  a  d  are  given,  the  slope 
of  the  line  a  b  is  determined ; 
and  then  its  position  will  depend 
on  that  of  the  rectangle.  If,  as 
in  Fig.  39.,  the  rectangle  is  par- 
allel to  the  picture  plane,  the  line 
a  b  must  be  so  also.  If,  as  in  Fig. 
40.,  the  rectangle  is  inclined  to 
the  picture  plane,  the  line  a  b  will 
be  so  also.  So  that,  to  fix  the 
position  of  a  b,  the  line  a  c  must  be  given  in  position  and  mag- 
nitude, and  the  height  a  d. 


Fig.  39. 


Fig.  40. 


368 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


If  these  are  given,  and  it  is  only  required  to  draw  the  single 
line  a  b  in  perspective,  the  construction  is  entirely  simple  ; 
thus  : — 

Draw  the  line  a  c  by  Problem  I. 

Let  a  c,  Fig.  41.,  be  the  line 
so  drawn.  From  a  and  c  raise 
the  vertical  lines  a  d,  c  b. 
Make  a  d  equal  to  the  sight- 
magnitude  of  a  d.  From  d 
draw  d  b  to  the  vanishing-point 
V  A  C  of  a  c,  cutting  b  c  in  b. 

a  Join  a  b.    Then  a  b  is  the 

Fig.  41.  Fig.  42.  .. 

inclined  line  required. 

If  the  line  is  inclined  in  the  opposite  direction,  as  d  c  in 
Fig.  42.,  we  have  only  to  join  d  c  instead  of  a  b  in  Fig.  41., 
and  d  c  will  be  the  line  required. 

I  shall  hereafter  call  the  line  a  c,  when  used  to  define  the 
position  of  an  inclined  line  a  b  (Fig.  40.),  the  "relative  hori- 
zontal "  of  the  line  a  b. 

Observation. 

In  general,  inclined  lines  are  most  needed  for  gable  roofs, 
in  which,  when  the  conditions  are  properly  stated,  the  vertica] 
height  of  the  gable,  x  y,  Fig.  43.,  is  given,  and  the  base  line, 


Y'  B'  Y 


Fig.  43.  Fig.  44. 


a  c,  in  position.  When  these  are  given,  draw  a  c  ;  raise  ver- 
tical a  d  ;  make  a  d  equal  to  sight,  magnitude  of  x  y  ;  com- 
plete the  perspective-rectangle  adbc;  join  a  b  and  d  c  (as  by 
dotted  lines  in  figure) ;  and  through  the  intersection  of  the 


VANISHING-POINT  OF  INCLINED  LINES.  369 


dotted  lines  draw  vertical  x  y,  cutting -d  b  in  y.  Join  ay,cy; 
and  these  lines  are  the  sides  of  the  gable.  If  the  length  of 
the  roof  a  a'  is  also  given,  draw  in  perspective  the  complete 
parallelopiped  a' d'  b  c,  and  from  y  draw  y  y'  to  the  vanishing- 
point  of  a  a',  cutting  d'  b'  in  y'.  Join  a'  y,  and  you  have  the 
slope  of  the  farther  side  of  the  roof. 

The  construction  above  the  eye  is  as  in  Fig.  44  ;  the  roof  is 
reversed  in  direction  merely  to  familiarize  the  student  with 
the  different  aspects  of  its  lines. 


PROBLEM  XVI. 

TO  FIND  THE    /ANISHING- POINT  OF  A  GIVEN  INCLINED  LINE. 

If,  in  Fig.  43.  or  Fig.  44.,  the  lines  a  y  and  a'  y'  be  pro- 
duced, the  stude  nt  will  find  that  they  meet. 

Let  p,  Fig.  45.,  be  the  point  at  which  they  meet. 

From  p  let  fall  the  vertical  p  v  on  the  sight-line,  cutting  the 
sight-line  in  v. 

Then  the  student  will  find  experimentally  that  v  is  the  van- 
ishing-point of  the  line  a  a* 

Complete  the  rectangle  of  the  base  ac',  by  drawing  a'  &  to 
v,  and  c  c'  to  the  vanishing-point  of  a  a'. 

Join  y'  c7. 

Now  if  y  c  and  y'  c'  be  produced  downwards,  the  student 
will  find  that  they  meet. 

Let  them  be  produced,  and  meet  in  p'. 

Produce  p  v,  and  it  will  be  found  to  pass  through  the 
point  p'. 

Therefore  if  a  y  (or  c  y),  Fig  45.,  be  any  inclined  line  drawn 
in  perspective  by  Problem  XV.,  and  a  c  the  relative  horizontal 
(a  c  in  Figs:  39.,  40.),  also  drawn  in  perspective. 

Through  v,  the  vanishing-point  of  a  c,  draw  the  vertical  p  p' 
upwards  and  downwards. 

Produce  a  y  (or  c  y),  cutting  p  p'  in  (p  or  p'V 

*  The  demonstration  is  in  Appendix  II.  Article  111. 


370 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Then  p  is  the  vanishing-point  of  a  y  (or  p'  of  c  y). 
The  student  will  observe  that,  in  order  to  find  the  point  f 
by  this  method,  it  is  necessary  first  to  draw  a  portion  of  the 


P 


Fig.  45. 


given  inclined  line  by  Problem  XV.  Practically,  it  is  always 
necessary  to  do  so,  and,  therefore,  I  give  the  problem  in  td-a 
form. 

Theoretically,  as  will  be  shown  in  the  analysis  of  the  prob- 


DlVIbiNG-POINTS  OF  INCLINED  LINES.  371 


Jem,  the  point  p  should  be  found  by  drawing  a  line  from  the 
station-point  parallel  to  the  given  inclined  line  ;  but  there  is 
no  practical  means  of  drawing  such  a  line  ;  so  that  in  what- 
ever terms  the  problem  may  be  given,  a  portion  of  the  inclined 
line  (a  y  or  c  y)  must  always  be  drawn  in  perspective  before  p 
can  be  found. 


PKOBLEM  XVII. 

TO  FIND  THE  DIVIDING-POINTS  OF  A  GIVEN  INCLINED  LINE. 


x  p  r 


• 

\ 

% 

\ 

\  s 

/ 

/ 
/  . 

< 

- 

Fig.  46. 


Let  p,  Fig.  46.,  be  the  vanishing-point  of  the  inclined  line, 
and  v  the  vanishing-point  of  the  relative  horizontal. 

Find  the  dividing-points  of  the  relative  horizontal,  d  and  d'. 

Through  p  draw  the  horizontal  line  x  y. 

With  centre  p  and  distance  d  p  describe  the  two  arcs  d  x 
and  d'  y,  cutting  the  line  x  y  in  x  and  y. 

Then  x  and  y  are  the  dividing-points  of  the  inclined  line.* 

Obs.  The  dividing-points  found  by  the  above  rule,  used 
with  the  ordinary  measuring-line,  will  lay  off  distances  on  the 
retiring  inclined  line,  as  the  ordinary  dividing-points  lay  them 
off  on  the  retiring  horizontal  line. 

*  The  demonstration  is  in  Appendix  II.,  p.  91. 


372 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE, 


Another  dividing-point,  peculiar  in  its  application,  is  som& 
times  useful,  and  is  to  be  found  as  follows  : 


0 

Fig. 

47. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  47.,  be  the  given  inclined  line  drawn  in  per- 
spective, and  a  c  the  relative  horizontal. 

Find  the  vanishing-points,  v  and  e,  of  a  g  and  a  b  ;  d,  the 
dividing-point  of  a  c  ;  and  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  c  on  the 
measuring-line,  or  a  c. 

From  d  erect  the  perpendicular  d  f. 

Join  c  b,  and  produce  it  to  cut  d  e  in  f.    Join  e  f. 

Then,  by  similar  triangles,  d  f  is  equal  to  e  v,  and  ef  is 
parallel  to  d  v. 

Hence  it  follows  that  if  from  d,  the  dividing-point  of  a  c, 
we  raise  a  perpendicular  and  make  d  f  equal  to  e  v,  a  line  c  f, 
drawn  from  any  point  c  on  the  measuring-line  to  f,  will  mark 
the  distance  a  b  on  the  inclined  line,  a  b  being  the  portion  of 
the  given  inclined  line  which  forms  the  diagonal  of  the  vertical 
rectangle  of  which  a  c  is  the  base. 


SIGHT-LINE  OF  INCLINED  PLANES. 


373 


PROBLEM  XVin. 

TO  FIND  THE    SIGHT-LINE  OF    AN  INCLINED    PLANE    IN  WHICH  TWO 
LINES  ARE   GIVEN  IN  POSITION.* 

As  in  order  to  fix  the  position  of  a  line  two  points  in  it  must 
be  given,  so  in  order  to  fix  the  position  of  a  plane,  two  lines 
in  it  must  be  given. 

V 


Fig.  48. 

Let  the  two  lines  be  a  b  and  c  d,  Fig.  48. 

^  Head  the  Article  on  this  problem  in  the  Appendix,  p.  87-88,  before 
investigating  the  problem  itself. 


374  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


As  they  are  given  in  position,  the  relative  horizontals  a  b 
and  c  f  must  be  given. 

Then  by  Problem  XVI.  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b  is  v,  and 
of  c  d,  v'. 

Join  v  v'  and  produce  it  to  cut  the  sight-line  in  x. 

Then  v  x  is  the  sight-line  of  the  inclined  plane. 

Like  the  horizontal  sight-line,  it  is  of  indefinite  length  ;  and 
may  be  produced  in  either  direction  as  occasion  requires, 
crossing  the  horizontal  line  of  sight,  if  the  plane  continues 
downward  in  that  direction. 

x  is  the  vanishing-point  of  all  horizontal  lines  in  the  in- 
clined plane. 


PKOBLEM  XIX. 

TO  FIND  THE  VANISHING-POINT  OF  STEEPEST  LINES  IN  AN  INCLINED 
PLANE  WHOSE  SIGHT-LINE  IS  GIVEN. 

V 


p 


  s 

5 

Y 

T 


Fig.  49. 

Let  v  x,  Fig.  49.,  be  the  given  sight-line. 
Produce  it  to  cut  the  horizontal  sight-line  in  x. 
Therefore  x  is  the  vanishing-point  of  horizontal  lines  iSa  the 
given  inclined  plane.    (Problem  XVIII.) 


VANISHING-POINT  OF  STEEPEST  LINES.  375 


Join  t  x,  and  draw  t  y  at  right  angles  to  t  x. 
Therefore  y  is  the  rectangular  vanishing-point  correspond- 
ing to  x.* 

From  y  erect  the  vertical  y  p,  cutting  the  sight-line  of  the 
inclined  plane  in  p. 

Then  p  is  the  vanishing-point  of  steepest  lines  in  the  plane. 

All  lines  drawn  to  it,  as  q  p,  r  p,  n  p,  &c,  are  the  steepest 
possible  in  the  plane  ;  and  all  lines  drawn  to  x,  as  q  x,  o  x,  &c, 
are  horizontal,  and  at  right  angles  to  the  lines  p  q,  p  r,  &c. 


PROBLEM  XX. 

TO  FIND    THE  VANISHING-POINT    OF   LINES   PERPENDICULAR  TO  THE 
SURFACE  OF  A  GIVEN  INCLINED  PLANE. 

As  the  inclined  plane  is  given,  one  of  its  steepest  lines  must 
be  given,  or  may  be  ascertained. 

Let  a  b,  Pig.  50.,  be  a  portion  of  a  steepest  line  in  the  given 
plane,  and  v  the  vanishing-point  of  its  relative  horizontal. 

Through  v  draw  the  vertical  g  f  upwards  and  downwards. 

From  a  set  off  any  portion  of  the  relative  horizontal  a  c, 
and  on  a  c  describe  a  semicircle  in  a  vertical  plane,  a  d  c,  cut- 
ting a  b  in  e. 

Join  e  c,  and  produce  it  to  cut  g  f  in  f. 

Then  f  is  the  vanishing-point  required. 

For,  because  a  e  c  is  an  angle  in  a  semicircle,  it  is  a  right 
angle  ;  and  therefore  the  line  e  f  is  at  right  angles  to  the  line 
a  b  ;  and  similarly  all  lines  drawn  to  f,  and  therefore  parallel 
to  e  f,  are  at  right  angles  with  any  line  which  cuts  them, 
drawn  to  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b. 

And  because  the  semicircle  a  d  c  is  in  a  vertical  plane,  and 
its  diameter  a  c  is  at  right  angles  to  the  horizontal  lines  trav- 
ersing the  surface  of  the  inclined  plane,  the  line  e  c,  being  in 
this  semicircle,  is  also  at  right  angles  to  such  traversing  lines. 

*  That  is  to  say,  the  vanishing-point  of  horizontal  lines  drawn  at 
right  angles  to  the  lines  whose  vanishing-point  is  x. 


87G  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


And  therefore  the  line  e  c,  being  at  right  angles  to  the  steepest 
lines  in  the  plane,  and  to  the  horizontal  lines  in  it,  is  perpen- 
dicular to  its  surface. 


j 

G 

m 

V 

Fig.  50. 


The  preceding  series  of  constructions,  with  the  examples  in 
the  first  Article  of  the  Appendix,  put  it  in  the  power  of  the 
student  to  draw  any  form,  however  complicated,*  which  does 

*  As  in  algebraic  science,  much  depends,  in  complicated  perspective, 
on  the  student's  ready  invention  of  expedients,  and  on  his  quick  sight 
of  the  shortest  way  in  which  the  solution  may  be  accomplished,  when 
there  are  several  ways. 


PLACING  AND  SCALE  OF  PICTURE.  377 


not  involve  intersection  of  curved  surfaces.  I  shall  not  pro- 
ceed to  the  analysis  of  any  of  these  more  complex  problems, 
as  they  are  entirely  useless  in  the  ordinary  practice  of  artists. 
For  a  few  words  only  I  must  ask  the  reader's  further  patience, 
respecting  the  general  placing  and  scale  of  the  picture. 

As  the  horizontal  sight-line  is  drawn  through  the  sight- 
point,  and  the  sight-point  is  opposite  the  eye,  the  sight-line  is 
always  on  a  level  with  the  eye.  Above  and  below  the  sight- 
line,  the  eye  comprehends,  as  it  is  raised  or  depressed  while 
the  head  is  held  upright,  about  an  equal  space  ;  and,  on  each 
side  of  the  sight-point,  about  the  same  space  is  easily  seen 
without  turning  the  head  ;  so  that  if  a  picture  represented 
the  true  field  of  easy  vision,  it  ought  to  be  circular,  and  have 
the  sight-point  in  its  centre.  But  because  some  parts  of  any 
given  view  are  usually  more  interesting  than  others,  either  the 
uninteresting  parts  are  left  out,  or  somewhat  more  than 
would  generally  be  seen  of  the  interesting  parts  is  included 
by  moving  the  field  of  the  picture  a  little  upwards  or  down- 
wards, so  as  to  throw  the  sight-point  low  or  high.  The  oper- 
ation will  be  understood  in  a  moment  by  cutting  an  aperture 
in  a  piece  of  pasteboard,  and  moving  it  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  eye,  without  moving  the  eye.  It  will  be  seen  to  em- 
brace sometimes  the  low,  sometimes  the  high  objects,  without 
altering  their  perspective,  only  the  eye  will  be  opposite  the 
lower  part  of  the  aperture  when  it  sees  the  higher  objects, 
and  vice  versd. 

There  is  no  reason,  in  the  laws  of  perspective,  why  the  pict- 
ure should  not  be  moved  to  the  right  or  left  of  the  sight- 
point,  as  well  as  up  or  down.  But  there  is  this  practical 
reason.  The  moment  the  spectator  sees  the  horizon  in  a  pict- 
ure high,  he  tries  to  hold  his  head  high,  that  is,  in  its  right 
place.  When  he  sees  the  horizon  in  a  picture  low,  he  similarly 
tries  to  put  his  head  low.  But,  if  the  sight-point  is  thrown 
to  the  left  hand  or  right  hand,  he  does  not  understand  that 
he  is  to  step  a  little  to  the  right  or  left ;  and  if  he  places  him- 
self, as  usual,  in  the  middle,  all  the  perspective  is  distorted. 
Hence  it  is  generally  unadvisable  to  remove  the  sight-point 
laterally,  from  the  centre  of  the  picture.    The  Dutch  painters, 


378 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


however,  fearlessly  take  the  license  of  placing  it  to  the  right 
or  left  ;  and  often  with  good  effect. 

The  rectilinear  limitation  of  the  sides,  top,  and  base  of  the 
picture  is  of  course  quite  arbitrary,  as  the  space  of  a  land- 
scape would  be  which  was  seen  through  a  window  ;  less  or 
more  being  seen  at  the  spectator's  pleasure,  as  he  retires  or 
advances. 

The  distance  of  the  station-point  is  not  so  arbitrary.  In 
ordinary  cases  it  should  not  be  less  than  the  intended  greatest 
dimension  (height  or  breadth)  of  the  picture.  In  most  works 
by  the  great  masters  it  is  more  ;  they  not  only  calculate  on 
their  pictures  being  seen  at  considerable  distances,  but  they 
like  breadth  of  mass  in  buildings,  and  dislike  the  sharp  angles 
which  always  result  from  station-points  at  short  distances  * 

Whenever  perspective,  done  by  true  rule,  looks  wrong,  it 
is  always  because  the  station-point  is  too  near.  Determine, 
in  the  outset,  at  what  distance  the  spectator  is  likely  to  exam- 
ine the  work,  and  never  use  a  station-point  within  a  less  dis- 
tance. 

There  is  yet  another  and  a  very  important  reason,  not  only 
for  care  in  placing  the  station-point,  but  for  that  accurate 
calculation  of  distance  and  observance  of  measurement  which 
have  been  insisted  on  throughout  this  work.  All  drawings  of 
objects  on  a  reduced  scale  are,  if  rightly  executed,  drawings 
of  the  appearance  of  the  object  at  the  distance  which  in  true 
perspective  reduces  it  to  that  scale.  They  are  not  small  draw- 
ings of  the  object  seen  near,  but  drawings  the  real  size  of  the 
object  seen  far  off.  Thus  if  you  draw  a  mountain  in  a  land- 
scape, three  inches  high,  you  do  not  reduce  all  the  features 
of  the  near  mountain  so  as  to  come  into  three  inches  of  paper. 
You  could  not  do  that.  All  that  you  can  do  is  to  give  the 
appearance  of  the  mountain,  when  it  is  so  far  off  that  three 
inches  of  paper  would  really  hide  it  from  you.    It  is  precisely 

*  The  greatest  masters  are  also  fond  of  parallel  perspective,  that  is  to 
say,  of  having  one  side  of  their  buildings  fronting  them  full,  and  there- 
fore parallel  to  the  picture  plane,  while  the  other  side  vanishes  to  the 
sight-point.  This  is  almost  always  done  in  figure  back-grounds,  securing 
simple  and  balanced  lines. 


PLACING  AND  SCALE  OF  PICTUim 


379 


the  same  in  drawing  any  other  object.  A  face  can  no  more 
be  reduced  in  scale  than  a  mountain  can.  It  is  infinitely  deli< 
cate  already  ;  it  can  only  be  quite  rightly  rendered  on  its  own 
scale,  or  at  least  on  the  slightly  diminished  scale  which  would 
be  fixed  by  placing  the  plate  of  glass,  supposed  to  represent 
the  field  of  the  picture,  close  to  the  figures.  Correggio  and 
Eaphael  were  both  fond  of  this  slightly  subdued  magnitude 
of  figure.  Colossal  painting,  in  which  Correggio  excelled  all 
others,  is  usually  the  enlargement  of  a  small  picture  (as  a  co- 
lossal sculpture  is  of  a  small  statue),  in  order  to  permit  tho 
subject  of  it  to  be  discerned  at  a  distance.  The  treatment  of 
colossal  (as  distinguished  from  ordinary)  paintings  will  depend 
therefore,  in  general,  on  the  principles  of  optics  more  than  on 
those  of  perspective,  though,  occasionally,  portions  may  be 
represented  as  if  they  were  the  projection  of  near  objects  on 
a  plane  behind  them.  In  all  points  the  subject  is  one  of  great 
difficulty  and  subtlety ;  and  its  examination  does  not  fall 
within  the  compass  of  this  essay. 

Lastly,  it  will  follow  from  these  considerations,  and  the 
conclusion  is  one  of  great  practical  importance,  that,  though 
pictures  may  be  enlarged,  they  cannot  be  reduced,  in  copying 
them.  All  attempts  to  engrave  pictures  completely  on  a  re- 
duced scale  are,  for  this  reason,  nugatory.  The  best  that  can 
be  done  is  to  give  the  aspect  of  the  picture  at  the  distance 
which  reduces  it  in  perspective  to  the  size  required ;  or,  in 
other  words,  to  make  a  drawing  of  the  distant  effect  of  the 
picture.  Good  painting,  like  nature's  own  work,  is  infinite, 
and  unreduceable. 

I  wish  this  book  had  less  tendency  towards  the  infinite  and 
unreduceable.  It  has  so  far  exceeded  the  limits  I  hoped  to 
give  it,  that  I  doubt  not  the  reader  will  pardon  an  abruptness 
of  conclusion,  and  be  thankful,  as  I  am  myself,  to  get  to  an 
end  on  any  terms. 


APPENDIX. 


I. 

PRACTICE  AND  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  PRECED- 
ING PROBLEMS, 


PROBLEM  I. 

An  example  will  be  necessary  to  make  this  problem  clear  to 
the  general  student. 

The  nearest  corner  of  a  piece  of  pattern  on  the  carpet  is 
4|-  feet  beneath  the  eye,  2  feet  to  our  right  and  3i  feet  in 
direct  distance  from  us.  We  intend  to  make  a  drawing  of 
the  pattern  which  shall  be  seen  properly  when  held  li  foot 
from  the  eye.    It  is  required  to 

fix  the  position  of  the  corner  of  DO 
the  piece  of  pattern. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  51.,  be  our  sheet 
of  paper,  some  3  feet  wide. 
Make  s  t  equal  to  H  foot.  Draw 
the  line  of  sight  through  s.  Pro- 
duce t  s,  and  make  d  s  equal  to  2 
feet,  therefore  t  d  equal  to 
feet.  Draw  d  c,  equal  to  2  feet ; 
c  p,  equal  to  4  feet.  Join  t  c  (cut- 
ting the  sight-line  in  q)  and  t  p. 

Let  fall  the  vertical  q  p',  then 
p'  is  the  point  required. 

If  the  lines,  as  in  the  figure,  fall  outside  of  your  sheet  of 
paper,  in  order  to  draw  them,  it  is  necessary  to  attach  other.. 


382  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


sheets  of  paper  to  its  edges.  This  is  inconvenient,  but  must 
be  done  at  first  that  you  may  see  your  way  clearly  ;  and  some- 
times afterwards,  though  there  are  expedients  for  doing  with- 
out such  extension  in  fast  sketching. 

It  is  evident,  however,  that  no  extension  of  surface  could 
be  of  any  use  to  us,  if  the  distance  t  d,  instead  of  being  3£ 
feet,  were  100  feet,  or  a  mile,  as  it  might  easily  be  in  a  land- 
scape. 

It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  obtain  some  other  means  of 
construction ;  to  do  which  we  must  examine  the  principle  of 
the  problem. 

In  the  analysis  of  Fig.  2.,  in  the  introductory  remarks,  I 
used  the  word  " height"  only  of  the  tower,  q  p,  because  it  was 


0 


DP  S 

Fio.  52. 

only  to  its  vertical  height  that  the  law  deduced  from  the  figure 
could  be  applied.  For  suppose  it  had  been  a  pyramid,  as 
o  q  p,  Fig.  52.,  then  the  image  of  its  side,  q  p,  being,  like  every 
other  magnitude,  limited  on  the  glass  a  b  by  the  lines  coming 
from  its  extremities,  would  appear  only  of  the  length  q' s  ; 
and  it  is  not  true  that  q'  s  is  to  q  p  as  t  s  is  to  t  p.  But  if  we 
let  fall  a  vertical  q  d  from  q,  so  as  to  get  the  vertical  height  of 
the  pyramid,  then  it  is  true  that  q' s  is  to  q  d  as  t  s  is  to  t  p. 

Supposing  this  figure  represented,  not  a  pyramid,  but  a 
triangle  on  the  ground,  and  that  q  d  and  q  p  are  horizontal 
lines,  expressing  lateral  distance  from  the  line  t  d,  still  the 
rule  would  be  false  for  q  p  and  true  for  q  d.  And,  similarly, 
it  is  true  for  all  lines  which  are  parallel,  like  q  d,  to  the  plane 
of  the  picture  a  b,  and  false  for  all  lines  which  are  inclined  to 
it  at  an  angle. 


APPENDIX. 


383 


Hence  generally.  Let  p  q  (Fig.  2.  in  Introduction,  p.  14)  be 
any  magnitude  parallel  to  the  plane  of  the  picture  ;  and  p'  q'  its 
image  on  the  picture. 

Then  always  the  formula  is  true  which  you  learned  in  the 
Introduction  :  p'  q'  is  to  p  q  as  s  t  is  to  d  t. 

Now  the  magnitude  p  dash  q  dash  in  this  formula  I  call  the 
M  sight-magnitude  "  of  the  line  p  q.  The  student  must  fix  this 
term,  and  the  meaning  of  it,  well  in  his  mind.  The  "  sight- 
magnitude  "  of  a  line  is  the  magnitude  which  bears  to  the  real 
line  the  same  proportion  that  the  distance  of  the  picture  bears 
to  the  distance  of  the  object.  Thus,  if  a  tower  be  a  hundred 
feet  high,  and  a  hundred  yards  off ;  and  the  picture,  or  piece 
of  glass,,  is  one  yard  from  the  spectator,  between  him  and  the 
tower  ;  the  distance  of  picture  being  then  to  distance  of  tower 
as  1  to  100,  the  sight-magnitude  of  the  tower's  height  will  be 
as  1  to  100  ;  that  is  to  say,  one  foot.  If  the  tower  is  two  hun- 
dred yards  distant,  the  sight-magnitude  of  its  height  will  be 
half  a  foot  and  so  on. 

But  farther.  It  is  constantly  necessar}r,  in  perspective  op- 
erations, to  measure  the  other  dimensions  of  objects  by  the 
sight-magnitude  of  their  vertical  lines.  Thus,  if  the  tower, 
which  is  a  hundred  feet  high,  is  square,  and  twenty-five  feet 
broad  on  each  side  ;  if  the  sight-magnitude  of  the  height  is 
one  foot,  the  measurement  of  the  side,  reduced  to  the  same 
scale,  will  be  the  hundredth  part  of  twenty-five  feet,  or  three 
inches  :  and  accordingly,  I  use  in  this  treatise  the  term  "  sight- 
magnitude"  indiscriminately  for  all  lines  reduced  in  the  same 
proportion  as  the  vertical  lines  of  the  object.  If  I  tell  you 
to  find  the  "  sight-magnitude  "  of  any  line,  I  mean,  always,  find 
the  magnitude  which  bears  to  that  line  the  proportion  of  s  t  to 
d  t  ;  or,  in  simpler  terms,  reduce  the  line  to  the  scale  which 
you  have  fixed  by  the  first  determination  of  the  length  s  t. 

Therefore,  you  must  learn  to  draw  quickly  to  scale  before 
you  do  anything  else  ;  for  all  the  measurements  of  your  ob- 
ject must  be  reduced  to  the  scale  fixed  by  s  t  before  you  can 
use  them  in  your  diagram.  If  the  object  is  fifty  feet  from 
3'ou,  and  your  paper  one  foot,  all  the  lines  of  the  object  must 
be  reduced  to  a  scale  of  one  fiftieth  before  you  can  use  them ; 


384 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


if  the  object  is  two  thousand  feet  from  you,  and  your  paper 
one  foot,  ail  your  lines  must  be  reduced  to  the  scale  of  one 
two-thousandth  before  you  can  use  them,  and  so  on.  Only  in 
ultimate  practice,  the  reduction  never  need  be  tiresome,  for, 
in  the  case  of  large  distances,  accuracy  is  never  required.  If 
a  building  is  three  or  four  miles  distant,  a  hairbreadth  of  ac- 
cidental variation  in  a  touch  makes  a  difference  of  ten 'or 
twenty  feet  in  height  or  breadth,  if  estimated  by  accurate  per- 
spective law.  Hence  it  is  never  attempted  to  apply  measure- 
ments with  precision  at  such  distances.  Measurements  are 
only  required  within  distances  of,  at  the  most,  two  or  three 
hundred  feet.  Thus,  it  may  be  necessary  to  represent  a  cathe- 
dral nave  precisely  as  seen  from  a  spot  seventy  feet  in  front 
of  a  given  pillar  ;  but  we  shall  hardly  be  required  to  draw  a 
cathedral  three  miles  distant  precisely  as  seen  from  seventy 
feet  in  advance  of  a  given  milestone.  Of  course,  if  such  a 
thing  be  required,  it  can  be  done  ;  only  the  reductions  are 
somewhat  long  and  complicated  ;  in  ordinary  cases  it  is  easy 
to  assume  the  distance  s  t  so  as  to  get  at  the  reduced  dimen- 
sions in  a  moment.    Thus,  let  the  pillar  of  the  nave,  in  the 

case  supposed,  be  42  feet 
high,  and  we  are  required 
to  stand  70  feet  from  it : 
assume  s  t  to  be  equal  to  5 
feet.  Then,  as  5  is  to  70  so 
will  the  sight-magnitude  re- 
quired be  to  42  ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  sight- magnitude  of 
the  pillar's  height  will  be  3 
feet.  If  we  make  s  t  equal 
to  2|  feet,  the  pillar's  height 
will  be  1^  foot  and  so  on. 

And  for  fine  divisions  into 
irregular  parts  which  can- 
not be  measured,  the  ninth  and  tenth  problems  of  the  sixth 
book  of  Euclid  will  serve  you  :  the  following  construction  is, 
however  I  think,  more  practically  convenient : — 

The  line  a  b  (Fig.  53.)  is  divided  by  given  points,  a,  b,  c, 


B 


Fig.  53. 


APPENDIX. 


385 


into  a  given  number  of  irregularly  unequal  parts  :  it  is  re- 
quired to  divide  any  other  line,  c  d,  into  an  equal  number  of 
parts,  bearing  to  each  other  the  same  proportions  as  the  parts 
of  a  b,  and  arranged  in  the  same  order. 

Draw  the  two  lines  parallel  to  each  other,  as  in  the  figure. 

Join  a  c  and  b  d,  and  produce  the  lines  a  c,  b  d,  till  they 
meet  in  p. 

Join  a  p,  b  p,  g  p,  cutting  c  d  in/,  g,  h. 

Then  the  line  c  d  is  divided  as  required,  in/,  g,  h. 

In  the  figure  the  lines  a  b  and  c  d  are  accidentally  perpen- 
dicular to  a  p.    There  is  no  need  for  their  being  so. 

Now,  to  return  to  our  first  problem. 

The  construction  given  in  the  figure  is  only  the  quickest 
mathematical  way  of  obtaining,  on  the  picture,  the  sight-mag- 
nitudes of  d  c  and  p  c,  which  are  both  magnitudes  parallel 
with  the  picture  plane.  But  if  these  magnitudes  are  too  great 
to  be  thus  put  on  the  paper,  you  have  only  to  obtain  the  re- 
duction by  scale.  Thus,  if  t  s  be  one  foot,  t  d  eighty  feet, 
d  c  forty  feet,  and  c  p  ninety  feet,  the  distance  q  s  must  be 
made  equal  to  one  eightieth  of  d  c,  or  half  a  foot ;  and  the 
distance  q  p',  one  eightieth  of  c  p,  or  one  eightieth  of  ninety 
feet ;  that  is  to  say,  nine  eighths  of  a  foot,  or  thirteen  and  a 
half  inches.  The  lines  c  t  and  p  t  are  thus  practically  useless, 
it  being  only  necessary  to  measure  q  s  and  q  p,  on  your  paper, 
of  the  due  sight-magnitudes.  But  the  mathematical  con- 
struction, given  in  Problem  I.,  is  the  basis  of  all  succeeding 
problems,  and,  if  it  is  once  thoroughly  understood  and  prac- 
tised (it  can  only  be  thoroughly  understood  by  practice),  all 
the  other  problems  will  follow  easily. 

Lastly.  Observe  that  any  perspective  operation  whatever 
may  be  performed  with  reduced  dimensions  of  every  line  em- 
ployed, so  as  to  bring  it  conveniently  within  the  limits  of  your 
paper.  When  the  required  figure  is  thus  constructed  on  a 
small  scale,  you  have  only  to  enlarge  it  accurately  in  the  same 
proportion  in  which  you  reduced  the  lines  of  construction,  and 
you  will  have  the  figure  constructed  in  perspective  on  the  scale 
required  for  use. 


386  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


PEOBLEM  IX. 

The  drawing  of  most  buildings  occurring  in  ordinary  practice 
will  resolve  itself  into  applications  of  this  problem.  In  gen- 
eral, any  house,  or  block  of  houses,  presents  itself  under  the 
main  conditions  assumed  here  in  Fig.  54.  There  will  be  an 
angle  or  corner  somewhere  near  the  spectator,  as  a  b  ;  and  the 
level  of  the  eye  will  usually  be  above  the  base  of  the  building, 
of  which,  therefore,  the  horizontal  upper  lines  will  slope  down 


B123456789  10 


F % 

a    6 

,  S 

A 

D  3 

 ;              I  * 

A 

Fig.  54. 


to  the  vanishing-points,  and  the  base  lines  rise  to  them.  The 
following  practical  directions  will,  however,  meet  nearly  all 
cases  : — 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  54,  be  any  important  vertical  line  in  the 
block  of  buildings  ;  if  it  is  the  side  of  a  street,  you  may  fix 
upon  such  a  line  at  the  division  between  two  houses.  If  its 
real  height,  distance,  &c,  are  given,  you  will  proceed  with  the 
accurate  construction  of  the  problem  ;  but  usually  you  will 
neither  know,  nor  care,  exactly  how  high  the  building  is,  or 


APPENDIX. 


387 


Low  far  off.  In  such  case  draw  the  line  a  b,  as  nearly  as  you 
can  guess,  about  the  part  of  the  picture  it  ought  to  occupy, 
and  on  such  a  scale  as  you  choose.  Divide  it  into  any  con- 
venient number  of  equal  parts,  according  to  the  height  you 
presume  it  to  be.  If  you  suppose  it  to  be  twenty  feet  high, 
you  may  divide  it  into  twenty  parts,  and  let  each  part  stand 
for  a  foot ;  if  thirty  feet  high,  you  may  divide  it  into  ten 
parts,  and  let  each  part  stand  for  three  feet ;  if  seventy  feet 
high,  into  fourteen  parts,  and  let  each  part  stand  for  five  feet ; 
and  so  on,  avoiding  thus  very  minute  divisions  till  you  come 
to  details.  Then  observe  how  high  your  eye  reaches  upon 
this  vertical  line  ;  suppose,  for  instance,  that  it  is  thirty  feet 
high  and  divided  into  ten  parts,  and  you  are  standing  so  as  to 
raise  your  head  to  about  six  feet  above  its  base,  then  the 
sight-line  may  be  drawn,  as  in  the  figure,  through  the  second 
division  from  the  ground.  If  you  are  standing  above  the 
house,  draw  the  sight-line  above  b  ;  if  below  the  house,  below 
a  ;  at  such  height  or  depth  as  you  suppose  may  be  accurate  (a 
yard  or  two  more  or  less  matters  little  at  ordinary  distances, 
while  at  great  distances  perspective  rules  become  nearly  use- 
less, the  eye  serving  you  better  than  the  necessarily  imper- 
fect calculation).  Then  fix  your  sight-point  and  station-point, 
the  latter  with  proper  reference  to  the  scale  of  the  line  a  b. 
As  you  cannot,  in  all  probability,  ascertain  the  exact  direction 
of  the  line  a  v  or  b  v,  draw  the  slope  b  v  as  it  appears  to  you, 
cutting  the  sight-line  in  v.  Thus  having  fixed  one  vanishing- 
point,  the  other,  and  the  dividing-points,  must  be  accurately 
found  by  rule  ;  for,  as  before  stated,  whether  your  entire 
group  of  points  (vanishing  and  dividing)  falls  a  little  more  or 
less  to  the  right  or  left  of  s  does  not  signify,  but  the  relation 
of  the  points  to  each  other  does  signify.  Then  draw  the 
measuring-line  b  g,  either  through  a  or  b,  choosing  always  the 
steeper  slope  of  the  two  ;  divide  the  measuring-line  into  parts 
of  the  same  length  as  those  used  on  a  b,  and  let  them  stand 
for  the  same  magnitudes.  Thus,  suppose  there  are  two  rows 
of  windows  in  the  house  front,  each  window  six  feet  high  by 
three  wide,  and  separated  by  intervals  of  three  feet,  both  be- 
tween window  and  window  and  between  tier  and  tier ;  each 


388  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


of  the  divisions  here  standing  for  three  feet,  the  lines  drawn 
from  bg  to  the  dividing-point  d  fix  the  lateral  dimensions, 
and  the  divisions  on  a  b  the  vertical  ones.  For  other  magni- 
tudes it  would  be  necessary  to  subdivide  the  parts  on  the 
measuring-line,  or  on  a  b,  as  required.  The  lines  which  reg- 
ulate the  inner  sides  or  returns  of  the  windows  {a,  b,  c,  &c.) 
of  course  are  drawn  to  the  vanishing-point  of  b  f  (the  other 
side  of  the  house),  if  fbv  represents  a  right  angle  ;  if  not, 
their  own  vanishing-point  must  be  found  separately  for  these 
returns.    But  see  Practice  on  Problem  XI. 

Interior  angles,  such  as  e  b  c,  Fig.  55.  (suppose  the  corner 


Fig.  55. 


of  a  room),  are  to  be  treated  in  the  same  way,  each  side  of  the 
room  having  its  measurements  separately  carried  to  it  from  the 
measuring-line.  It  may  sometimes  happen  in  such  cases  that 
we  have  to  carry  the  measurement  up  from  the  corner  b,  and 
that  the  sight-magnitudes  are  given  us  from  the  length  of  the 
line  a  b.  For  instance,  suppose  the  room  is  eighteen  feet  high, 
and  therefore  a  b  is  eighteen  feet ;  and  we  have  to  lay  off 
lengths  of  six  feet  on  the  top  of  the  room-wall,  b  c.  Find  d, 
the  dividing-point  of  b  c.  Draw  a  measuring-line,  b  f,  from 
b  ;  and  another,  g  c,  anywhere  above.  On  b  f  lay  off  b  g  equal 
to  one  third  of  a  b,  or  six  feet  ;  and  draw  from  d,  through  g 
and  b,  the  lines  g  g,  b  b,  to  the  upper  measuring-line.  Then  g  b 
is  six  feet  on  that  measuring-line.  Make  b  c,  c  h9  &c,  equal  to 


APPENDIX. 


389 


b  g  ;  and  draw  c  e,  h  f,  &c.,  to  d,  cutting  b  c  in  e  and  f,  which 
mark  the  required  lengths  of  six  feet  each  at  the  top  of  the 
wall. 


PEOBLEM  X. 


This  is  one  of  the  most  important  foundational  problems  in 
perspective,  and  it  is  necessary  that  the  student  should  entirely 
familiarize  himself  with  its  conditions. 

In  order  to  do  so,  he  must  first  observe  these  general  rela- 
tions of  magnitude  in  any  pyramid  on  a  square  base. 
Let  a  g  h',  Fig.  5G.,  be  any  pyramid  on  a  square  base. 
The  best  terms  in  which  its  magnitude  can  be  given,  are 
the  length  of  one  side  of  its  base,  a  h,  and  its 
vertical  altitude  (c  d  in  Fig.  25.) ;  for,  know- 
ing these,  we  know  all  the  other  magnitudes. 
But  these  are  not  the  terms  in  which  its  size 
will  be  usually  ascertainable.    Generally,  we 
shall  have  given  us,  and  be  able  to  ascertain 
by  measurement,  one  side  of  its  base  a  h, 
and  either  a  g  the  length  of  one  of  the  lines 
of  its  angles,  or  b  g  (or  b'  g)  the  length  of  a 

line  drawn  from  its  vertex,  g,  to  the 
middle  of  the  side  of  its  base.  In 
measuring  a  real  pyramid,  a  g  will 
usually  be  the  line  most  easily  found  ; 
but  in  many  architectural  problems  b  g 
is  given,  or  is  most  easily  ascertainable. 

Observe  therefore  this  general  con- 
struction. 

Let  a  b  d  e,  Fig.  57.,  be  the  square 
base  of  any  pyramid. 

Draw  its  diagonals,  a  e,  b  d,  cutting 
each  other  in  its  centre,  c. 
FlG-  m-  Bisect  any  side,  a  b,  in  f. 

From  i  erect  vertical  f  g. 
Produce  f  b  to  h,  and  make  f  h  equal  to  a  c 


G 


H 


390 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Now  if  the  vertical  altitude  of  the  pyramid  (c  d  in  Fig.  25.) 
be  given,  make  w  g  equal  to  this  vertical  altitude. 
Join  g  b  and  g  h. 

Then  g  b  and  g  h  are  the  true  magnitudes  of  g  b  and  g  h  in 
Fig.  56. 

If  g  b  is  given,  and  not  the  vertical  altitude,  with  centre  b, 
and  distance  g  b,  describe  circle  cutting  f  g  in  g,  and  f  g  is 
the  vertical  altitude. 


If  g  h  is  given,  describe  the  circle  from  h,  with  distance  g  h, 
and  it  will  similarly  cut  f  g  in  g. 

It  is  especially  necessary  for  the  student  to  examine  this 
construction  thoroughly,  because  in  many  complicated  forms 
of  ornaments,  capitals  of  columns,  &c,  the  lines  b  g  and  g  h 
become  the  limits  or  bases  of  curves,  which  are  elongated  on 
the  longer  (or  angle)  profile  g  h,  and  shortened  on  the  shorter 
(or  lateral)  profile  b  g.  We  will  take  a  simple  instance,  but 
must  previously  note  another  construction. 

It  is  often  necessary,  when  pyramids  are  the  roots  of  some 
ornamental  form,  to  divide  them  horizontally  at  a  given  ver« 


Fig.  58. 


APPENDIX. 


391 


tical  height.  The  shortest  way  of  doing  so  is  in  general  the 
following. 

Let  a  e  c,  Fig  58.,  be  any  pyramid  on  a  square  base  abc, 
and  adc  the  square  pillar  used  in  its  construction. 

Then  by  construction  (Problem  X.)  b  d  and  a  f  are  both  of 
the  vertical  height  of  the  pyramid. 

Of  the  diagonals,  f  e,  d  e,  choose  the  shortest  (in  this  case 
d  e),  and  produce  it  to  cut  the  sight-line  in  v. 

Therefore  v  is  the  vanishing-point  of  d  e. 

Divide  d  b,  as  may  be  required,  into  the  sight-magnitudes 
of  the  given  vertical  heights  at  which  the  pyramid  is  to  be 
divided. 

From  the  points  of  division,  1,  2,  3,  &c,  draw  to  the  van- 
ishing-point v.  The  lines  so  drawn  cut  the  angle  line  of  the 
pyramid,  b  e,  at  the  required  elevations.  Thus,  in  the  figure, 
it  is  required  to  draw  a  horizontal  black  band  on  the  pyramid 
at  three  fifths  of  its  height,  and  in  breadth  one  twentieth  of 
its  height.  The  line  b  d  is  divided  into  five  parts,  of  which 
three  are  counted  from  b  upwards.  Then  the  line  drawn  to  v 
marks  the  base  of  the  black  band.  Then  one  fourth  of  one  of 
the  five  parts  is  measured,  which  similarly  gives  the  breadth 
of  the  band.  The  terminal  lines  of  the  band  are  then  drawn 
on  the  sides  of  the  pyramid  parallel  to  a  b  (or  to  its  vanishing- 
point  if  it  has  one),  and  to  the  vanishing-point  of  b  c. 

If  it  happens  that  the  vanishing-points  of  the  diagonals  are 
awkwardly  placed  for  use,  bisect  the  nearest  base  line  of  the 
pyramid  in  b,  as  in  Fig.  59. 

Erect  the  vertical  d  b  and  join  g  b  and  d  g  (g  being  the  apex 
of  pyramid). 

Find  the  vanishing-point  of  d  g,  and  use  d  b  for  division, 
carrying  the  measurements  to  the  line  g  b. 

In  Fig.  59.,  if  we  join  a  d  and  d  c,  a  d  c  is  the  vertical  pro- 
file of  the  whole  pyramid,  and  b  d  c  of  the  half  pyramid,  cor- 
responding to  f  g  b  in  Fig.  57. 

We  may  now  proceed  to  an  architectural  example. 

Let  a  h,  Fig.  60.,  be  the  vertical  profile  of  the  capital  of  a 
pillar,  a  b  the  semi-diameter  of  its  head  or  abacus,  and  f  d  the 
semi-diameter  of  its  shaft. 


392 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Let  the  shaft  be  circular,  and  the  abacus  square,  down  to 
the  level  e. 

Join  b  d,  e  f,  and  produce  them  to  meet  in  g. 

Therefore  e  c  g  is  the  semi-profile  of  a  reversed  pyramid 
containing  the  capital. 

Construct  this  pyramid,  with  the  square  of  the  abacus,  in 
the  required  perspective,  as  in  Fig.  61.  ;  making  a  e  equal  to 
a  e  in  Fig.  60.,  and  a  k,  the  side  of  the  square,  equal  to  twice 

A  B 


IS,,',"             "  J 

,  N   / 

%  / 

IB  C\ 

E 

*  E 


D 


Fig.  59. 


Fig.  60. 


a  b  in  Fig.  60.  Make  e  g  equal  to  c  g,  and  e  d  equal  to  c  r>. 
Draw  d  f  to  the  vanishing-point  of  the  diagonal  d  v  (the  fig- 
ure is  too  small  to  include  this  vanishing-point),  and  f  is  the 
level  of  the  point  f  in  Fig.  60.,  on  the  side  of  the  pyramid. 

Draw  f  m,  f  n,  to  the  vanishing-points  of  ah  and  a  k.  Then 
f  n  and  f  m  are  horizontal  lines  across  the  pyramid  at  the 
level  f,  forming  at  that  level  two  sides  of  a  square. 

Complete  the  square,  and  within  it  inscribe  a  circle,  as  in 
Fig.  62.,  which  is  left  unlettered  that  its  construction  may 
be  clear.  At  the  extremities  of  this  draw  vertical  lines, 
which  will  be  the  sides  of  the  shaft  in  its  right  place.  It  will 
be  found  to  be  somewhat  smaller  in  diameter  than  the  entire 
shaft  in  Fig.  60.,  because  at  the  centre  of  the  square  it  is 


APPENDIX. 


393 


394  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


more  distant  than  the  nearest  edge  of  the  square  abacus. 
The  curves  of  the  capital  may  then  be  drawn  approximately 
by  the  eye.  They  are  not  quite  accurate  in  Fig.  62.,  there 
being  a  subtlety  in  their  junction  with  the  shaft  which  could 
not  be  shown  on  so  small  a  scale  without  confusing  the  stu- 
dent ;  the  curve  on  the  left  springing  from  a  point  a  little 
way  round  the  circle  behind  the  shaft,  and  that  on  the  right 
from  a  point  on  this  side  of  the  circle  a  little  way  within  the 
edge  of  the  shaft.  But  for  their  more  accurate  construction 
see  Notes  on  Problem  XTV. 


PROBLEM  XI. 

It  is  seldom  that  any  complicated  curve,  except  occasionally 
a  spiral,  needs  to  be  drawn  in  perspective  ;  but  the  student 
will  do  well  to  practise  for  some  time  any  fantastic  shapes 
which  he  can  find  drawn  on  flat  surfaces,  as  on  wall-papers, 
carpets,  &c,  in  order  to  accustom  himself  to  the  strange  and 
great  changes  which  perspective  causes  in  them. 


0  P  D 


Fig.  63. 


The  curves  most  required  in  architectural  drawing,  after 
the  circle,  are  those  of  pointed  arches  ;  in  which,  however,  all 
that  will  be  generally  needed  is  to  fix  the  apex,  and  two 
points  in  the  sides.  Thus  if  we  have  to  draw  a  range  of 
pointed  arches,  such  as  a  p  b,  Fig.  63,  draw  the  measured  arch 


APPENDIX. 


395 


to  its  sight-magnitude  first  neatly  in  a  rectangle  abcd;  then 
draw  the  diagonals  a  d  and  b  c  ;  where  they  cut  the  curve  draw 
a  horizontal  line  (as  at  the  level  e  in  the  figure),  and  carry  it 
along  the  range  to  the  vanishing-point,  fixing  the  points 
where  the  arches  cut  their  diagonals  all  along.  If  the  arch  is 
cusped,  a  line  should  be  drawn  at  f  to  mark  the  height  of  the 
cusps,  and  verticals  raised  at  g  and  h,  to  determine  the  interval 
between  them.  Any  other  points  may  be  similarly  determined, 
but  these  will  usually  be  enough.  Figure  63.  shows  the  per- 
spective construction  of  a  square  niche  of  good  Veronese 
Gothic,  with  an  uncusped  arch  of  similar  size  and  curve  be- 
yond. 


Fig.  64. 


In  Fig.  64.  the  more  distant  arch  only  is  lettered,  as  the 
construction  of  the  nearest  explains  itself  more  clearly  to  the 
eye  without  letters.  The  more  distant  arch  shows  the  gen- 
eral construction  for  all  arches  seen  underneath,  as  of  bridges, 
cathedral  aisles,  &c.  The  rectangle  abcd  is  first  drawn  to 
contain  the  outside  arch ;  then  the  depth  of  the  arch,  a  a,  is 
determined  by  the  measuring-line,  and  the  rectangle,  aba  d, 
drawn  for  the  inner  arch. 

a  a,  b  b,  &c,  go  to  one  vanishing-point ;  a  b,  a  b,  &c,  to  the 
opposite  one. 

In  the  nearer  arch  another  narrow  rectangle  is  drawn  to 
determine  the  cusp,  The  parts  which  would  actually  come 
into  sight  are  slightly  shaded. 


896 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


PROBLEM  XIV. 

Several  exercises  will  be  required  on  this  important  problem. 

I.  It  is  required  to  draw  a  circular  flat-bottomed  dish,  nar- 
rower at  the  bottom  than  the  top  ;  the  vertical  depth  being 
given,  and  the  diameter  at  the  top  and  bottom. 

Let  a  b,  Fig.  65.,  be  the  diameter  of  the  bottom,  a  c  the 
diameter  of  the  top,  and  a  d  its  vertical  depth. 

a 

j  do 


H 


Fig.  65. 

Take  a  d  in  position  equal  to  a  c. 

On  a  d  draw  the  square  abcd,  and  inscribe  in  it  a  circle. 

Therefore,  the  circle  so  inscribed  has  the  diameter  of  the 
top  of  the  dish. 

From  a  and  d  let  fall  verticals,  a  e,  d  h,  each  equal  to  a  d. 

Join  e  h,  and  describe  square  e  f  g  h,  which  accordingly  will 
be  equal  to  the  square  abcd,  and  be  at  the  depth  a  d  beneath  it. 

Within  the  square  e  f  g  h  describe  a  square  i  k,  whose  di- 
ameter shall  be  equal  to  a  6. 

Describe  a  circle  within  the  square  i  k.  Therefore  the  cir- 
cle so  inscribed  has  its  diameter  equal  to  a  b  ;  and  it  is  in  the 


APPENDIX. 


397 


centre  of  the  square  epgh,  which  is  vertically  beneath  the 
square  abcd, 

Therefore  the  circle  in  the  square  i  k  represents  the  bottom 
of  the  dish. 

Now  the  two  circles  thus  drawn  will  either  intersect  one 
another,  or  they  will  not. 

If  they  intersect  one  another,  as  in  the  figure,  and  they  are 
below  the  eye,  part  of  the  bottom  of  the  dish  is  seen  within  it. 

To  avoid  confusion,  let  us  take  then  two  intersecting  circles 
without  the  enclosing  squares,  as  in  Fig.  66. 

Draw  right  lines,  a  b,  c  d,  touching  both  circles  externally. 
Then  the  parts  of  these 
lines  which  connect  the 
circles  are  the  sides  of  the 

dish.    They  are  drawn  in  *^*>J^Z 
Fig.  65.  without  any  pro-  FlG- 66- 

longations,  but  the  best  way  to  construct  them  is  as  in  Fig.  66. 

If  the  circles  do  not  intersect  each  other,  the  smaller  must 
either  be  within  the  larger  or  not  within  it. 

If  within  the  larger,  the  whole  of  the  bottom 
of  the  dish  is  seen  from  above,  Fig.  67.,  a. 

If  the  smaller  circle  is  not  within  the  larger, 
none  of  the  bottom  is  seen  inside  the  dish,  b. 

If  the  circles  are  above  instead  of  beneath  the 
eye,  the  bottom  of  the  dish  is  seen  beneath  it,  c. 
If  one  circle  is  above  and  another  beneath  the 

  eye,  neither  the  bottom  nor  top  of  the  dish  is 

\C—^Y   seen,  d.     Unless  tho  object  be  very  large,  the 
circles  in  this  case  will  have  little  apjDarent  curva- 

Oture. 
II.  The  preceding  problem  is  simple,  because 
the  lines  of  the  profile  of  the  object  {a  b  and  c  d, 
Fig.  66.)  are  straight.    But  if  these  lines  of  pro- 
file are  curved,  the  problem  becomes  much  more  complex  : 
once  mastered,  however,  it  leaves  no  farther  difficulty  in  per- 
spective. 

Let  it  be  required  to  draw  a  flattish  circular  cup  or  vase, 
with  a  given  curve  of  profile. 


398  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


The  basis  of  construction  is  given  in  Fig.  68.,  half  of  it  only 
being  drawn,  in  order  that  the  eye  may  seize  its  lines  easily. 

Two  squares  (of  the  required  size)  are  first  drawn,  one  above 
the  other,  with  a  given  vertical  interval,  a  c,  between  them, 
and  each  is  divided  into  eight  parts  by  its  diameters  and  diag- 
onals. In  these  squares  two  circles  are  drawn  :  which  are, 
therefore,  of  equal  size,  and  one  above  the-other.  Two  smaller 
circles,  also  of  equal  size,  are  drawn  within  these  larger  circles 
in  the  construction  of  the  present  problem  ;  more  may  be 
necessary  in  some,  none  at  all  in  others. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  portions  of  the  diagonals  and  diame- 


A 

Fig.  68. 


ters  of  squares  which  are  cut  off  between  the  circles  represent 
radiating  planes,  occupying  the  position  of  the  spokes  of  a 
wheel. 

Now  let  the  line  aeb,  Fig.  69.,  be  the  profile  of  the  vase  or 
cup  to  be  drawn. 

Enclose  it  in  the  rectangle  c  d,  and  if  any  portion  of  it  is  not 
curved,  as  a  e,  cut  off  the  curved  portion  by  the  vertical  line 
e  f,  so  as  to  include  it  in  the  smaller  rectangle  f  d. 

Draw  the  rectangle  acbd  in  position,  and  upon  it  construct 
two  squares,  as  they  are  constructed  on  the  rectangle  a  c  d  in 
Fig.  68.;  and  complete  the  construction  of  Fig.  68.,  making  the 
radius  of  its  large  outer  circles  equal  to  a  d,  and  of  its  small 
inner  circles  equal  to  a  e. 

The  planes  which  occupy  the  position  of  the  wheel-spokes 
will  then  each  represent  a  rectangle  of  the  size  of  f  d.  The 
construction  is  shown  by  the  dotted  lines  in  Fig.  69  ;  c  being 
the  centre  of  the  uppermost  circle. 


APPENDIX. 


399 


Within  each  of  the  smaller  rectangles  between  the  circles, 
draw  the  curve  e  b  in  perspective,  as  in  Fig.  69. 

Draw  the  curve  x  y,  touching  and  enclosing  the  curves  \  .\ 
the  rectangles,  and  meeting  the  upper  circle  at  ?/.* 

Then  x  y  is  the  contour  of  the  surface  of  the  cup,  and  the 
upper  circle  is  its  lip. 

If  the  line  xy  is  long,  it  may  be  necessary  to  draw  other  rec- 
tangles between  the  eight  principal  ones  ;  and,  if  the  curve  of 
profile  a  b  is  complex  or  retorted,  there  may  be  several  lines 
corresponding  to  x  y,  enclosing  the  successive  waves  of  the 


Fig.  69. 


profile  ;  and  the  outer  curve  will  then  be  an  undulating  or 
broken  one. 

III.  All  branched  ornamentation,  forms  of  flowers,  capitals 
of  columns,  machicolations  of  round  towers,  and  other  such 
arrangements  of  radiating  curve,  are  resolvable  by  this  prob- 
lem, using  more  or  fewer  interior  circles  according  to  the  con- 
ditions of  the  curves.  Fig.  70.  is  an  example  of  the  construc- 
tion of  a  circular  group  of  eight  trefoils  with  curved  stems. 
One  outer  or  limiting  circle  is  drawn  within  the  square 
e  d  c  f,  and  the  extremities  of  the  trefoils  touch  it  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  its  diagonals  and  diameters.    A  smaller  circle  is 

*  This  point  coincides  in  the  figure  with  the  extremity  of  the  horizon- 
tal diameter,  but  only  accidentally. 


400 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


at  the  vertical  distance  b  c  below  the  larger,  and  a  is  the  angle  of 
the  square  within  which  the  smaller  circle  is  drawn  ;  but  the 
square  is  not  given,  to  avoid  confusion.    The  stems  of  the 

trefoils  form  drooping  curves, 
arranged  on  the  diagonals 
and  diameters  of  the  smaller 
circle,  which  are  dotted.  But 
no  perspective  laws  will  do 
work  of  this  intricate  kind  so 
well  as  the  hand  and  eye  of 
a  painter. 

IV.  There  is  one  common 
construction,  however,  in 
which,  singularly,  the  hand 
and  eye  of  the  painter  almost 
always  fail,  and  that  is  the 
fillet  of  any  ordinary  capital 
or  base  of  a  circular  pillar  (or 
any  similar  form).  It  is  rarely 
necessary  in  practice  to  draw 
such  minor  details  in  perspec- 
tive ;  yet  the  perspective  laws 
which  regulate  them  should 
be  understood,  else  the  eye 
does  not  see  their  contours 
rightly  until  it  is  very  highly 
cultivated. 

Fig.  71  will  show  the  law 
with  sufficient  clearness  ;  it 
represents  the  perspective 
construction  of  a  fillet  whose 
profile  is  a  semicircle,  such 
as  f  h  in  Fig.  60.,  seen  above 
the  eye.  Only  half  the  pillar  with  half  the  fillet  is  drawn,  to 
avoid  confusion. 

q  is  the  centre  of  the  shaft. 

p  q  the  thickness  of  the  fillet,  sightanagnitude  at  the  shaft's 
centre. 


APPENDIX.  401 

Round  p  a  horizontal  semicircle  is  drawn  on  the  diameter  of 
the  shaft  a  b. 

Round  q  another  horizontal  semicircle  is  drawn  on  diameter 
c  d. 

These  two  semicircles  are  the  upper  and  lower  edges  of  the 
fillet. 

Then  diagonals  and  diameters  are  drawn  as  in  Fig.  68.,  and 
at  their  extremities,  semicircles  in  perspective,  as  in  Fig.  69. 
The  letters  a,  b,  c,  d,  and  e,  indicate  the  upper  and  exterior 


Fig.  71. 


angles  of  the  rectangles  in  which  these  semicircles  are  to  be 
drawn  ;  but  the  inner  vertical  line  is  not  dotted  in  the  rec- 
tangle at  c,  as  it  would  have  confused  itself  with  other  lines. 

Then  the  visible  contour  of  the  fillet  is  the  line  which  encloses 
and  touches  *  all  the  semicircles.  It  disappears  behind  the 
shaft  at  the  point  h,  but  I  have  drawn  it  through  to  the  oppo- 
site extremity  of  the  diameter  at  d. 

*  The  engraving  is  a  little  inaccurate  ;  the  enclosing  line  should 
touch  the  dotted  semicircles  at  A  and  B.  The  student  should  draw  it 
on  a  large  scale. 


402 


TEE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE 


Turned  upside  down  the  figure  shows  the  construction  of  a 
bassic  fillet. 

The  capital  of  a  Greek  Doric  pillar  should  be  drawn  fre- 
quently for  exercise  on  this  fourteenth  problem,  the  curve  of 
its  echinus  being  exquisitely  subtle,  while  the  general  contour 
is  simple. 


PEOBLEM  XVI. 

It  is  often  possible  to  shorten  other  perspective  operations 
considerably,  by  finding  the  vanishing-points  of  the  inclined 
lines  of  the  object.  Thus,  in  drawing  the  gabled  roof  in  Fig. 
43.,  if  the  gable  a  y  c  be  drawn  in  perspective,  and  the  vanish- 
ing-point of  a  y  determined,  it  is  not  necessary  to  draw  the 
two  sides  of  the  rectangle,  a' d'  and  d'  b',  in  order  to  deter- 
mine the  point  y';  but  merely  to  draw  y  y'  to  the  vanishing- 
point  of  a  a'  and  a'  y'  to  the  vanishing-point  of  a  y,  meeting  in 
y',  the  point  required. 

Again,  if  there  be  a  series  of  gables,  or  other  figures  pro- 
duced by  parallel  inclined  lines,  and  retiring  to  the  point  v, 
as  in  Fig.  72.*,  it  is  not  necessary  to  draw  each  separately,  but 
merely  to  determine  their  breadths  on  the  line  a  v,  and  draw 
the  slopes  of  each  to  their  vanishing-points,  as  shown  in  Fig. 
72.  Or  if  the  gables  are  equal  in  height,  and  a  line  be  drawn 
from  y  to  v,  the  construction  resolves  itself  into  a  zigzag  drawn 
alternately  to  p  and  q,  between  the  lines  y  v  and  a  v. 

The  student  must  be  very  cautious,  in  finding  the  vanish- 
ing-points of  inclined  lines,  to  notice  their  relations  to  the 
horizontals  beneath  them,  else  he  may  easily  mistake  the  hori- 
zontal to  which  they  belong. 

Thus,  let  abc  d,  Fig.  73.,  be  a  rectangular  inclined  plane, 
and  let  it  be  required  to  find  the  vanishing-point  of  its  diag- 
onal B  D. 

Find  v,  the  vanishing-point  of  a  d  and  b  c. 
Draw  a  e  to  the  opposite  vanishing-point,  so  that  r>  a  e  mav 
represent  a  right  angle. 

Let  fall  from  b  the  vertical  b  e,  cutting  a  e  in  e. 
*  The  diagram  is  inaccurately  cut.  y  v  should  he  a  right  line. 


APPENDIX. 


m 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Join  e  d,  and  produce  it  to  cut  the  sight-line  in  v'. 

Then,  since  the  point  e  is  vertically  under  the  point  b,  the 
horizontal  line  e  d  is  vertically  under  the  inclined  line  b  d.  So 
that  if  we  now  let  fall  the  vertical  v'  p  from  v',  and  produce 

B 


n 

mm 

Fig.  73. 


b  d  to  cut  v'  p  in  p,  the  point  p  will  be  the  vanishing-point  of 
b  d,  and  of  all  lines  parallel  to  it.* 

*  The  student  may  perhaps  understand  this  construction  better  by 
completing  the  rectangle  A  D  F  E,  drawing  D  F  to  the  vanishing-point  of 
A  E,  and  E  F  to  v.  The  whole  figure,  B  F,  may  then  be  conceived  as  rep- 
resenting half  the  gable  roof  of  a  house,  A  F  the  rectangle  of  its  base, 
and  A  c  the  rectangle  of  its  sloping  side. 

In  nearly  all  picturesque  buildings,  especially  on  the  Continent,  the 
slopes  of  gables  are  much  varied  (frequently  unequal  on  the  two  sides), 
and  the  vanishing-points  of  their  inclined  lines  become  very  important, 
if  accuracy  is  required  in  the  intersections  of  tiling,  sides  of  dormer 
windows,  &c. 

Obviously,  also,  irregular  triangles  and  polygons  in  vertical  planes  may 
be  more  easily  constructed  by  finding  the  vanishing-points  of  their  sides, 
than  by  the  construction  given  in  the  corollary  to  Problem  IX.;  and  if 
such  triangles  or  polygons  have  others  concentrically  inscribed  within 
them,  as  often  in  Byzantine  mosaics,  &c.,  the  use  of  the  vanishing-points 
will  become  essential. 


APPENDIX, 


405 


PEOBLEM  XVIH. 

Before  examining  the  last  three  problems  it  is  necessary 
that  you  should  understand  accurately  what  is  meant  by  the 
position  of  an  inclined  plane. 

Cut  a  piece  of  strong  white  pasteboard  into  any  irregular 
shape,  and  dip  it  in  a  sloped  position  into  water.  However 
you  hold  it,  the  edge  of  the  water,  of  course,  will  always  draw 
a  horizontal  line  across  its  surface.  The  direction  of  this 
horizontal  line  is  the  direction  of  the  inclined  plane.  (In  beds 
of  rock  geologists  call  it  their  "strike.") 

Next,  draw  a  semicircle  on  the  piece  of  pasteboard  ;  draw 
its  diameter,  a  b,  Fig.  74.,  and  a 
vertical  line  from  its  centre,  c  d., 
and  draw  some  other  lines,  c  e, 
c  f,  &c,  from  the  centre  to  any 
points  in  the  circumference. 

Now  dip  the  piece  of  paste- 
board again  into  water,  and  hold-  ^ 
ing  it  at  any  inclination  and  in 
any  direction  you  choose,  bring  the  surface  of  the  water  to  the 
line  a  b.  Then  the  line  c  d  will  be  the  most  steeply  inclined 
of  all  the  lines  drawn  to  the  circumference  of  the  circle  ;  g  a 
and  h  c  will  be  less  steep,  and  e  c  and  f  c  less  steep  still.  The 
nearer  the  lines  to  c  d,  the  steeper  they  will  be  ;  and  the  nearer 
to  a  b,  the  more  nearly  horizontal. 

"When,  therefore,  the  line  a  b  is  horizontal  (or  marks  the 
water  surface),  its  direction  is  the  direction  of  the  inclined 
plane,  and  the  inclination  of  the  line  dc  is  the  inclination  of 
the  inclined  plane.  In  beds  of  rock  geologists  call  the  inclina- 
tion of  the  line  d  c  their  " dip." 

To  fix  the  position  of  an  inclined  plane,  therefore,  is  to  de- 
termine the  direction  of  any  two  lines  in  the  plane,  a  b  and 
c  d,  of  which  one  shall  be  horizontal  and  the  other  at  right 
angles  to  it.  Then  any  lines  drawn  in  the  inclined  plane, 
parallel  to  a  b,  will  be  horizontal ;  and  lines  drawn  parallel  to 


406 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


c  d  will  be  as  steep  as  c  d,  and  are  spoken  of  in  the  text  aa 
the  "  steepest  lines  "  in  the  plane. 

But  farther,  whatever  the  direction  of  a  plane  may  be,  if  it 
be  extended  indefinitely,  it  will  be  terminated,  to  the  eye  of 
the  observer,  by  a  boundary  line,  which,  in  a  horizontal  plane, 
is  horizontal  (coinciding  nearly  with  the  visible  horizon)  ;— in 
a  vertical  plane,  is  vertical ; — and,  in  an  inclined  plane,  is 
inclined. 

This  line  is  properly,  in  each  case,  called  the  "sight-line" 
of  such  plane  ;  but  it  is  only  properly  called  the  "horizon  "  in 
the  case  of  a  horizontal  plane :  and  I  have  preferred  using 
always  the  term  "sight  line,"  not  only  because  more  compre- 
hensive, but  more  accurate ;  for  though  the  curvature  of  the 
earth's  surface  is  so  slight  that  practically  its  visible  limit 
always  coincides  with  the  sight  line  of  a  horizontal  plane,  it 
does  not  mathematically  coincide  with  it,  and  the  two  lines 
ought  not  to  be  considered  as  theoretically  identical,  though 
they  are  so  in  practice. 

It  is  evident  that  all  vanishing-points  of  lines  in  any  plane 
must  be  found  on  its  sight-line,  and,  therefore,  that  the  sight- 
line  of  any  plane  may  be  found  by  joining  any  two  of  such 
vanishing-points.    Hence  the  construction  of  Problem  XVIII. 


II. 

DEMONSTRATIONS  WHICH  COULD  NOT  CONVEN- 
IENTLY BE  INCLUDED  IN  THE  TEXT. 

I. 

THE  SECOND  COROLLARY,   PROBLEM  it 

In  Fig.  8.  omit  the  lines  c  d,  c'  d,'  and  p  s  ;  and,  as  here  in 
Fig.  75.,  from  a  draw  a  d  parallel  to  a  b,  cutting  bt  in  d  ;  and 
from  d  draw  d  e  parallel  to  b  c. 

Now  as  a  d  is  parallel  to  a  b — 

a  c  :  a  c  ::  b  c  :  de; 


APPENDIX.  407 

but  a  c  is  equal  to  b  c' — 

.  \  a  c  =  d  e. 

Now  because  the  triangles  a  c  v,  b  c'  v,  are  similar— 
a  c  :  b  c'     a  v  :  b  y  ; 
and  because  the  triangles  d  e  t,  b  c' t  are  similar — 
d  e  :  b  d  ::  <^  t  :  b  t. 

But  a  e  is  equal  to  d  e — 

a  v  :  b  y  ;:  d  t  :  b  t. 
the  two  triangles  a  b  d}  b  t  v,  are  similar,  and  their  angles 
are  alternate  : 

.   t  v  is  parallel  to  a  d. 

But  a  d  is  parallel  to  a  b — 

•  *.  t  v  is  parallel  to  a  b. 


408  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


n. 

THE  THIRD  COROLLARY,   PROBLEM  III. 

In  Fig.  13,  since  a  r  is  by  construction  parallel  to  a  b  in  Fig. 
12.,  and  t  v  is  by  construction  in  Problem  III.  also  parallel  to 
a  b — 

.  *.  a  r  is  parallel  to  t  v, 
.  \  a  b  r  and  t^v  are  alternate  triangles, 
.%  a  b  :  t  v  ::  a  b  :  b  y. 

Again,  by  the  construction  of  Fig.  13.,  a  r'  is  parallel  to  m  v — 

.-.  a  b  r'  and  m  b  v  are  alternate  triangles, 
.-.  a  r'  :  m  v  ::  a  b  :  6  v. 

And  it  has  just  been  shown  that  also 

a  r  :  t  v  ::  a  b  :  b  v — 
.  %  a  b'  :  m  v  :  :  a  n  t  t 

But  by  construction,  a  r'  =  a  r — 
.•.  m  v  =  t  v. 


III. 

ANALYSIS  OF  PROBLEM  XV. 

We  proceed  to  take  up  the  general  condition  of  the  second 
problem,  before  left  unexamined,  namely,  that  in  which  the 
vertical  distances  b  c'  and  a  c  (Fig.  6.  page  20),  as  well  as  the 
direct  distances  t  d  and  t  d'  are  unequal. 

In  Fig.  6.,  here  repeated  (Fig.  76.),  produce  c'  b  down- 
wards, and  make  c'  e  equal  to  c  a. 

Join  a  e. 

Then,  by  the  second  Corollary  of  Problem  II.,  a  e  is  a  hori- 
zontal line. 


APPENDIX. 


409 


Draw  t  v  parallel  to  a  e,  cutting  the  sight-line  in  v. 

.  \  v  is  the  vanishing-point  of  a  e. 
Complete  the  constructions  of  Problem  II.  and  its  second 
Corollary. 

Then  by  Problem  II.  a  b  is  the  line  a  b  drawn  in  perspec- 
tive ;  and  by  its  Corollary  a  e  is  the  line  a  e  drawn  in  per* 
spective. 


C  D' 


T 

Fig.  76. 


From  v  erect  perpendicular  v  p,  and  produce  a  b  to  cut  it 
in  p. 

Join  t  p,  and  from  e  draw  e  f  parallel  to  a  e,  and  cutting 
a  t  in/. 

Now  in  triangles  ebt  and  a  e  t,  as  e  b  is  parallel  to  e  b  and 
e/toAE  ; — e  b:  efr.EB:  ae. 

But  t  v  is  also  parallel  to  a  e  and  p  v  to  e  b. 
Therefore  also  in  the  triangles  a  p  v  and  a  v  t, 

eb:  ef : :  p  v  :  v  t, 
Therefore  pv:vt::eb:ae. 
And,  by  construction,  angle  tpv  =  Z  aeb. 


410  TEE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE. 


Therefore  the  triangles  tvp,aeb,  are  similar  ;  and  t  p  is 
parallel  to  a  b. 

Now  the  construction  in  this  problem  is  entirely  general  for 
any  inclined  line  a  b,  and  a  horizontal  line  a  e  in  the  same 
vertical  plane  with  it. 

So  that  if  we  find  the  vanishing-point  of  ae  in  v,  and  from 
v  erect  a  vertical  v  p,  and  from  t  draw  t  p  parallel  to  a  b,  cut- 


B 


T 


Fio.  77. 

ting  v  p  in  p,  p  will  be  the  vanishing-point  of  a  b,  and  (by  the 
same  proof  as  that  given  at  page  21.)  of  all  lines  parallel  to  it. 

Next,  to  find  the  dividing-point  cf  the  inclined  line. 

I  remove  some  unnecessary  lines  from  the  last  figure  and 
repeat  it  here,  Fig.  77.,  adding  the  measuring-line,  a  m,  that 
the  student  may  observe  its  position  with  respect  to  the  other 
lines  before  I  remove  any  more  of  them. 

Now  if  the  line  a  b  in  this  diagram  represented  the  length 
of  the  line  a  b  in  reality  (as  a  b  does  in  Figs.  10.  and  11.),  we 


APPENDIX. 


4n 


should  only  have  to  proceed  to  modify  Corollary  III.  of  Prob- 
lem II.  to  this  new  construction.  We  shall  see  presently  that 
a  b  does  not  represent  the  actual  length  of  the  inclined  line 
a  b  in  nature,  nevertheless  we  shall  first  proceed  as  if  it  did, 
and  modify  our  result  afterwards. 

In  Fig.  77,  draw  a  d  parallel  to  a  b,  cutting  b  t  in  d. 

Therefore  a  d  is  the  sight-magnitude  of  a  b,  as  a  r  is  of  a  r 
in  Fig.  11. 

Remove  again  from  the  figure  all  lines  except  p  v,  v  t,  p  t, 
a  b,  a  d,  and  the  measuring-line. 


Set  off  on  the  measuring-line  a  m  equal  to  a  d. 
Draw  b  q  parallel  to  a  m,  and  through  b  draw  m  q,  cutting 
p  q  in  q. 

Then,  by  the  proof  already  given  in  page  25,  p  q  =  p  t. 

Therefore  if  p  is  the  vanishing-point  of  an  inclined  line  a  b, 
and  q  p  is  a  horizontal  line  drawn  through  it,  make  p  q  equal 
to  p  t,  and  a  m  on  the  measuring-line  equal  to  the  sight-mag- 
nitude of  the  line  a  b  in  the  diagram,  and  the  line  joining  m  q 
will  cut  a  p  in  6. 


412 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  PERSPECTIVE, 


We  have  now,  therefore,  to  consider  what  relation  the 
length  of  the  line  a  b  in  this  diagram,  Fig.  77.,  has  to  the 
length  of  the  line  a  b  in  reality. 

Now  the  line  a  e  in  Fig.  77.  represents  the  length  of  a  e  in 
reality. 

Bat  the  angle  aeb,  Fig.  77.,  and  the  corresponding  angle 
in  all  the  constructions  of  the  earlier  problems,  is  in  reality  a 
right  angle,  though  in  the  diagram  neces- 
sarily represented  as  obtuse. 

Therefore,  if  from  e  we  draw  e  c,  as  in 
Fig.  79.,  at  right  angles  to  ae,  make  ec  = 
e  b,  and  join  a  c,  a  e  will  be  the  real  length 
of  the  line  a  b. 
fig.  79.  Now,  therefore,  if  instead  of  a  m  in  Fig. 

78.,  we  take  the  real  length  of  a  b,  that  real  length  will  be  to 
a  m  as  a  c  to  a  b  in  Fig.  79. 

And  then,  if  the  line  drawn  to  the  measuring-line  p  q  is  still 
to  cut  a  p  in  b,  it  is  evident  that  the  line  p  q  must  be  shortened 


Fig.  80. 


in  the  same  ratio  that  a  m  was  shortened,  and  the  true  divid- 
ing-point will  be  q'  in  Fig.  80.,  fixed  so  that  q'  p'  shall  be  to 
q  p  as  a  m  is  to  a  m  :  a  m,  representing  the  real  length  of  ad. 

But  a  m!  is  therefore  to  a  m  as  a  c  is  to  a  b  in  Fig.  79. 

Therefore  p  q'  must  be  to  p  q  as  a  c  is  to  a  b. 

But  p  q  equals  p  t  (Fig.  78.)  ;  and  p  v  is  to  v  t  (in  Fig.  78.) 
as  b  e  is  to  a  e  (Fig.  79.). 


APPENDIX. 


413 


Hence  we  have  only  to  substitute  p  v  for  e  c,  and  v  t  for 
a  e,  in  Fig.  79.,  and  the  resulting  diagonal  a  c  will  be  the  re- 
quired length  of  p  q'. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  construction  given  in  the  text  (Fig. 
46.)  is  the  simplest  means  of  obtaining  this  magnitude,  for 
v  d  in  Fig.  46.  (or  v  M  in  Fig.  15.)  =  v  t  by  construction  in 
Problem  IV.  It  should,  however,  be  observed,  that  the  dis- 
tance p  q'  or  p  x,  in  Fig.  46.,  may  be  laid  on  the  sight-line  of 
the  inclined  plane  itself,  if  the  measuring-line  be  drawn  par- 
allel to  that  sight-line.  And  thus  any  form  may  be  drawn  on 
an  inclined  plane  as  conveniently  as  on  a  horizontal  one,  with 
the  single  exception  of  the  radiation  of  the  verticals,  which 
have  a  vanishing-point,  as  shown  in  Problem  XX 


